


Gilmore's Glorious Grog

by ceylontea



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Romance, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Kima/Allura Vysoren, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, Minor Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot, Minor Shaun Gilmore/Vax'ildan, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, bi grog, but completely clueless grog, explorations of past relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 105,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceylontea/pseuds/ceylontea
Summary: Two boys, born an ocean apart, used to stare at the sky at night. Neither knew they were walking a path that would draw them together. Neither knew what they would find in each other's arms. Their journey was as gradual as the phases of the moon, shadows fading away until they were adrift at high tide, their hearts completely full.The idea of Grog x Gilmore started as a joke, but here I am now. This is a long exploration of how these very different characters could possibly come together and fall in love. Some fanart included within.





	1. The Moon and the Runechild

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for reading. Here's the first chapter, which is just a peek into their younger years. I hope, even if this ship sounds strange, you enjoy the story and the characters. As a brown fan, I'm especially enjoying fleshing out a little more of Gilmore's childhood. I love him a lot... 
> 
> Anyway, all I'm saying is Grog and Gilmore are each others types. I want to see how this could work, so welcome aboard for the ride.

Grog Strongjaw didn’t spend much time alone with his thoughts.

As a kid, he always barrelled head-long into things. He learned to walk, run, and fight before he learned to speak. And even after his words started filling in, he found his fists proved more effective.

That was the language of the heard. The children reshuffled their hierarchy on a daily basis, engaged in a constant tussle for attention, respect, and reward. They ran wild through the campsite, dealing out justice through an internal system of bullying and intimidation. If they wanted to eat, they had to wrestle their portion from group campfires. If they wanted praise, they had to prove their mettle in the most vicious fashion.

It was a life of expression in physical forms: instinct over intellect.

Even Grog’s concept of home was purely visceral. Home was something built by hand—tent pegs hammered into the ground, a wooden skeleton for a canvas frame, a fireplace dug out of damp soil. Home was the smell of wood smoke, and the stretched-out carcasses from hunting trips. It was the barrage of surrounding voices, always on the go. The tread of a thousand footsteps, marking new ground. There was a sense of safety in those things.

But Grog didn’t always feel safe.

With so many goliaths living on top of one another, all were quick to find fault with the little ones under their feet. Grog never knew when his behaviour would be met with cheerful laughter, or when it would earn a quick cuff to the side of his head.

Even his father was an uncertainty. Stonejaw swung between horrible, bored distance, moments of fierce pride, and blinding _anger. _He seemed unmoved by his son’s round cheeks and big emotive eyes. He scowled in response to the mischievous smile that would charm people for the rest of Grog’s life. And Grog learned exactly when to scramble for his hiding places.

His favourite was at the back of their tent. Beside the rear exit, they kept an old, weathered bearskin. Grog would scoop it up and vanish into the cold night air. He would lean against the skeletal wooden frame that loomed over the exterior of the tent, his stocky form clinging to the shadows, out of sight. There, the rough dirt underfoot would ground him—the fresh air a welcome guest to frightened, squeezing lungs. Grog would sit, stomach churning, and his mind would start to spin.

Because his life seemed so unfair. His father was meant to be his protector. So why did he harm Grog in fits of rage? And he wanted his son to be brave—he was always bragging about the natural brash courage of the family. So why did he lash out, forcing Grog to cower? Forcing him to be afraid?

Fighting with his father was nothing like fighting with the other kids. When Stonejaw pushed him around, he had no _hope_ of defending himself.

And though he didn’t know the word for it, he understood injustice.

That kind of introspection made him miserable though. He’d rather shut it out. So, most nights, he’d shift around until a hole in his bearskin fell over his eyes, giving him a proper view of the sky. Smoke danced above the nearby tents, forming shapes against the stars. The largest moon was soft and glowing—the most permanent fixture in his life. Even when it faded to black, it always returned, carrying a quiet kind of strength that Grog could find in nothing else.

He often fell asleep with silver light bathing his pale eyelids—his lash-line wet with tears.

…

Shaun Geddmore was an idea’s man.

He was also the kind of kid who dived head-long into things. But he did it with a little more flair—a little more panache. He learned to talk while still toddling on unsteady feet, and mastered words, and sentences, and eloquence faster than most children his age.

Though Shaun was raised with both Marquesian and Common, the strongest language of all was one of unconditional love. He was the kind of only-child people often joke about—completely doted on by his loving parents, who were older than most when they had him, with no shortage of time and affection. They raised him with delicious home cooked meals and frequent compliments. 

It was a life centred on encouragement: defined by healthy growth.

Shaun’s concept of home was warm and idyllic. Home was something steady and small in the endless gold of the sprawling desert continent—dust clinging to the soles of bare brown feet, a cream-coloured house that soaked in the sun, a bedroom with a square window looking out at endless blue. Home was the bleat of goats roaming their garden, and the pungent citrus of the trees along their road. It was a windowsill with the yeast-and-thyme smell of rising bread. It was children racing up and down the street.

Shaun always felt safe there.

And why wouldn’t he? The small town of Shandal was settled and quiet. Its residents had roots that could be traced for generations. Their ancestors had tended the same date palms, or kept goats, or dried fish and fruit from the oasis.

But no one should assume that they were ordinary. And the most remarkable secret of Shandal was held by the Geddmore family. For there was magic in their bloodline, far back, associated with the hunted, tortured runechildren: sorcerers once enslaved for their gifts. Opesa and Soren remembered the history well. They knew Opesa’s runechild ancestor had been forced to seek refuge in their desert town, on the run from powerful forces. And now, they could see a spark in their son—a hint that the family magic might be manifesting once again.

Though practices had changed, they still feared he would be swept into a dangerous world.

They feared losing Shaun for other reasons too: for his spunk and his wit and his charm: for his head full of dreams and his hands always at work. They began to realise that their little corner of the world might not be enough to hold his ambition. And though they were proud—of course they were—they couldn’t help but mourn.

Shaun had his own cosy place on the roof of their house. He retreated at that precise moment when the sun hit the edge of the horizon, and the sky lit up in rosy glory. When the heat of the day was fleeing into the endless desert sky, the roof still radiated warmth. Shaun turned his eyes to the heavens. He pictured the trajectory of his life painted out in clouds…

Most nights, one of his parents would make their way up the steps on the side of the house. They brought tea, sweetened with sugar from date palms, and kissed his forehead before they left him to his thoughts.

Shaun appreciated them so deeply. But he was young and _hungry. _He knew something of what the world might hold. His thoughts spun, dizzy, mixing maps and paintings and things he made up: a large, foreign city in Tal’dorei: a shop painted with his name: his hands dripping with jewellery: the shy laugh of a beautiful man.

And he knew a dozen words for it; he understood craving, yearning, longing.

He kept those things in his thoughts for a while. As a child, urgency hadn’t sunk over him yet, and dreaming was a perfect solace. He would turn around, languid as a chunky housecat, searching the sky. One leg swung over the side of the roof, bumping against the cream walls below as he took in the sights above. He liked it best when both moons were out, or just the larger one. Each night, he watched shadows change across its surface—a constant stream of passing time—a promise that he was carried on the tides toward his future.

His parents always called him back before he drifted off to sleep.

…

There were no official classes in the Herd of Storms; schooling was based purely on the whims of parents. And Stonejaw had quite decisively placed Grog into the _not worth teaching _category.

It took him exactly one experiment to reach that conclusion, prompted by an ongoing rivalry with his brother, Kevdak. Their struggle often extended into the lives of their young sons, each trying to prove that they were parenting the better kid.

One year, Kevdak had been giving his son lessons on the basic building blocks of reading. He thought it was important for the more complex conflicts the herd undertook, where reading street signs or maps was required. The classes were simple: held in the middle of Kevdak’s tent, using couple of sharpened sticks to write in the dust. After a few weeks, Zanror could recite the letters of common and spell his name in giant.

Stonejaw had to get his son in on the competition.

But when he pulled Grog into the tent to join the lessons, things didn’t move so quickly. Or, rather, they didn’t move at all. Grog wriggled in his seat and threw handfuls of dirt instead of copying the letters on the ground. He refused to listen to Kevdak. And when Stonejaw tried to make him sit still, Grog slipped loose of his hands.

“I don’t _want _to!” he yelled.

Down in his chest, something was squeezing tight. He hated the incomprehensible markings in the dust. He hated the impossibility of connecting them to sounds. The harder he focused, the more he felt like he was drowning. And the letters blurred behind his eyes, like hot, painful tears. He’d never felt so stupid.

He wanted to snap their drawing stick in half. He wanted to shove it in someone’s eye.

Zanror was staring at him smugly.

“You’re too dumb anyway,” he said.

Grog bristled.

“I’ll _smash_ you."

If he didn’t get angry, he feared he might start crying. And Zanror, trained never to take a slight, leaped to his feet right away.

“Try it,” he spat. “You moron.”

Grog felt rage burst through his veins—flooding his system—a welcome break from all his other feelings. He _shoved _his cousin to the ground.

“You can be a whimpy old scholar,” he said. “I don’t care about this _shit_.”

There was a terrible silence. Grog came down from his buzz of fury. He saw that Zanror’s eyes were wet. And then he remembered their fathers were standing behind them. A crash of dread swept into his chest—a consuming chill.

But both Stonejaw and Kevdak laughed.

“That’s my boy,” Stonejaw snickered, nudging his brother. “Your kid’s just not up to it, huh?”

Kevdak lost his mirth.

“He was just thinking through his next move.”

“Ah,” Stonejaw winked. “But Grog just _acted. _Right, son? No one’ll ever accuse you of thinking to deeply.”

And Grog puffed out his chest in pride. It turned out, his father was happier with his display of strength than he ever would have been if Grog had learned to read. He let Grog quit lessons, and soon after, gifted him his very first axe.

Grog would forget about that day in the years that followed. But something from it buried itself deep in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that attached itself to the intellectual pursuits of the written word. He knew, now, that he simply wasn’t smart enough. It was better if he stuck to his uncomplicated corner of the world; it was better if he didn’t try.

…

The long, flat buildings of Shandal’s local school sat against the edge of an oasis spring. There, a tiny gathering of sixty students learned to swim, fish, and manage small boats, as well as attending classes in writing, reading, maths, and history.

Shaun got on well there. He was a bright child—gifted in articulating words, with a talent for numbers. And he made friends with ease. His sweet, expressive face was compelling, his voice beckoning everyone to listen. And he had a kind heart. He was genuine in a way children could sense. Of course his classmates adored him. Though they didn’t quite understand him…

They didn’t understand why he stared at maps with sparkling eyes, and asked so many questions about places far away. They didn’t understand why he wore such outlandish clothes. And they understood him even less on the day his first rune appeared—the day he manifested a true display of magic.

They were playing by the lake between classes, though the height of summer had turned its edges to mud. Some of the kids had set up fishing lines in class that morning, and they were drawing them in early, eager to find the burrowing crimson fish that inhabited the area.

“My line’ll have the most,” said Nimi, yanking hers toward shore, all pointy elbows and messy hair. “’Cause I used the best bait.”

Shaun hadn’t intended to check his line yet. He was avoiding the mud—dangling his pudgy feet in the water from atop a small wooden jetty. His tunic was brand new, dyed purple, and his father had carefully embroidered olive leaves around the cuffs and hem. He didn’t want to ruin it.

But he was offended. They’d all brought food from home—pieces of dried meat made by their parents—and he disliked the idea that his Amma and Appa couldn’t make food as well as Nimi’s.

“Why’s yours the best?” he asked.

Nimi rolled her eyes.

“Because my Amma can do magic, and so can the fish.”

It was a child’s logic; magic fish who could glow might respond to magic meat created by Shandal’s local wizard. Yet the rest of the kids exchanged uneasy glances. Nimi and Shaun could get competitive, and it seemed an argument was brewing.

“You can’t make meat with _magic_,” Shaun said haughtily, sticking his eight-year-old nose in the air.

“Can so!”

“Can _not_!”

Shaun leaped to his feet and marched back down the jetty. He unhooked his line, wrapped it around his hand, and started to wind it in as well. Nimi hastened her own tugging. Her younger brother, Niranjan, hovered uneasily at the edge of the water. He chewed his lip.

“Nims,” he said. “I don’t think Amma put any magic in the—”

“Shut up.”

Nimi got her line all the way to shore, and crowed in delight at the sight of two fish hanging from her hooks. She removed them with the deft fingers of a child who’d been raised on a fishing boat, waving them in the air.

“Told you, Shaun!”

Shaun focused more intently, moving as fast as he could. He felt Niranjan hovering closer, concerned, and for some reason, the presence of the other boy bolstered his desire to prove himself.

“Aha!” Shaun gasped, a last tug drawing his line taunt. “Look!”

Three beautiful scarlet fish glistened in the air.

He spun, happy smile painted right across his face, just in time to see Nimi’s expression consumed by her frustration—her feet pounded, one, two, three steps to him across the jetty—her skinny arms slammed into his stomach—her full weight hurled against his body.

They tumbled right into the depths of the mud.

Abruptly, all was quiet. Every set of eyes in the schoolyard was trained on their struggling forms at the edge of the spring. Niranjan hastily gathered both their lines, moving them out of the way, so no one could be caught on spare fishing hooks. He looked resigned—used to tidying in their wake.

And then the air filled with squealing as they surfaced from the muck. Shaun was furious; his world had narrowed down to the set of elbows jamming into his ribs and the horrendous squelch of mud destroying his new tunic. He wrenched himself away, scrambling to his feet.

“_No,_” he whispered softly, tears springing to his eyes at the state of his clothes. It wasn’t as though his family could afford this kind of thing often. And he had been _so pleased _with the beautiful silken weave of green olive leaves through purple. “No!”

He felt something, at the base of his spine, rippling up across his back. Like a trickle of water in reverse. Like the flickering dance of a candle flame. Like… something undefinable.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Warmth pulsed through his entire body, radiating out, consuming his world for a single second. A gasp erupted from his classmates. The sensation condensed to a burn between his eyebrows.

His lashes flickered open. He expected them to be clumped with mud. Instead, they were clean. Instead, he was clean.

Shaun looked down, and found his entire tunic completely free of sludge, as pristine as the day his father finished sewing it. There was even a circle of pure water around his feet, so perfect that his face was reflected back like a mirror in its surface. His face. Marked by a glowing purple rune in the middle of his forehead.

…

Grog made a lot of decisions based on how other people responded. 

He watched the other goliaths and copied what they did. He chugged ale, and adults cheered. He fought viciously in sparring matches, and everyone agreed he’d make a fine warrior one day. He helped his peers tear up roots to use as clubs, and they called him their friend.

When he was eleven, he pointed out a good-looking girl to his cousins. They egged him on until he agreed to approach her.

He would never forget that day.

Merag was one year older than him, and tough as leather. Her hands bore a beautiful puckered scar from the time she tried to catch a wild boar. Her eyes were muddy brown and made him feel warm. When she laughed, her voice rasped with the smoke of a campfire, and she threw back her head, short hair rippling like living flame. She was bold and open and honest about what she wanted. Grog was smitten.

And when Grog grinned at her, she responded. She told him—glint in her eye—that she loved his smile, and she suspected he might be her only equal in a running race. Though he sensed she was teasing him, he still rose to the challenge.

The two young goliaths, giddy with excitement, took off to find a good place to run. There was a pond at the edges of camp. It was fairly deserted, the only people nearby simply washing their clothes, gossiping as they worked. Grog and Merag marked out a path, using an ancient oak as the finishing post, and then lined up, ready to begin.

“On the count of three,” said Merag.

Grog didn’t really know his numbers, but he waited for the word “three.” And they were off. He pushed himself into his highest speed, until a pleasant ache tugged as his muscles, and his feet churned up deep prints in the muddy sides of the pond. Merag’s legs were longer though. She took the lead for the entire race. But when they finished, beside an ancient oak, she still seemed to be impressed.

Grog leaned against the tree, one hand braced on rough bark, trying to catch his breath.

“Well, shit,” he said. “You’re fucking amazing.”

And Merag laughed that loud, hoarse laugh of hers, tucked a hand under his chin so he could feel the roughness of her scar, and looked him dead in the eye—brown on grey.

“I know you want to kiss me,” she said.

Grog was wide-eyed. Her boldness made him like her even more.

Merag offered one small wink.

“Go on, then,” she said. “I won’t wait all day.”

And Grog was so thrilled he forgot to be shy. He grabbed her by the waist and pressed his lips to hers. She pushed against him—opened her mouth a little—and he discovered that this physical expression came as naturally to him as any other. They kissed for longer than he ever would have hoped.

When Merag pulled away, her face was flushed.

“You’re good at that, Strongjaw.”

“So’re you,” he managed.

And she shrugged and left him there, small smile on her face.

Later, when his cousins crowded around to ask him about it, he changed the story a little. It seemed to be the done thing—embellished masculinity, exaggerated bravery—a victory in a running race and an impressed girl asking him to kiss her. No one needed to know that it had been his very first kiss. No one needed to know how grateful he was to Merag, for her confidence, and for taking the lead in more than just the race.

He knew exactly what he liked now.

…

From the moment the people of Shandal found out Shaun was a runechild, they treated him with fascination and strange reverence.

He didn’t like it. Though he’d always been a motivated person—driven by some combination of internal ambition and the desire to impress—their attention created pressure. He found it hard to exist with a hundred eyes fixed on his back.

Nimi and Niranjan were the only people who didn’t change at all. Perhaps because their mother was a wizard and magic didn't seem so foreign to them. Perhaps simply because they’d always been good friends. So Shaun was heartbroken when they left Shandal for good.

He would never forget that day.

He turned up at school on the last week of the rainy season and found them standing in front of class, the teacher at their side. He took his usual seat with the other children, trying to guess what was happening. Nimi stood with her spine straight, fidgeting under weight of the excitement she was holding. But Niranjan, with his soft hair flopping over his eyes, looked like he might be sick.

Shaun’s heart leapt with dread.

Admittedly, he’d always been hyperaware of Niranjan’s presence—his whole body alight whenever the other boy was near—everything somehow holding more significance. So he hoped things weren’t as dire as they felt.

At last, their teacher ended the torture of uncertainty and silenced the room. She asked the siblings to share their news. And Nimi stepped forward to explain.

Their mother had been offered a new job, working under a fancy wizard off in Ank'Harel. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. They were moving away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. At lunchtime, Shaun barely managed to catch Nimi alone. She hugged him so tight he couldn’t breathe, and actually admitted she would miss him. He kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for being his friend. And then she reminded him to talk to her brother as well, voice weighted with significance.

But Shaun couldn’t work up the courage to approach Niranjan. At the end of the day, he was preparing to walk home, ashamed.

“Shaun?”

The gentle voice barely carried on the wind. But he turned.

Niranjan was standing by the door to the schoolhouse, hands fidgeting.

“You said goodbye to Nimi,” he said. “Why not me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Niranjan grimaced.

“You always spent more time with her. Even though you were fighting constantly. I wish…” He seemed embarrassed. He turned his face down to the sand. “I wish she hadn’t taken up all your time.”

“I’m sorry,” Shaun said. “I-I didn’t know you wanted to spend time with me.”

“I wanted to.” Niranjan took a deep breath. His voice was so soft. “I wanted you all to myself.”

Shaun’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. He closed the gap between them, because he suddenly felt magnetised. The sadness in those words was a mistake he _had to _fix.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It’s okay. I know I- I’m probably not as important to you. I know you might just see me as Nimi’s kid brother.” Shaun opened his mouth to protest, but Niranjan barrelled on. “But you know I’m only six months younger than _you_. We’re both fourteen. And I- I always wanted…”

Niranjan interrupted himself with a laugh, still nervous.

“What did you want?” Shaun asked.

Niranjan looked up at him. His eyes were shadowed and intense beneath the overcast sky. Unspoken words crackled in the air, electric, and everything seemed to make sense. Shaun acted on instinct, shaky as he felt, and took the other boy’s face in his hands, drawing their lips together for a single, sweet kiss.

“I’ll write to you,” he promised breathlessly. “Until we meet again.”

For the first time, Niranjan’s smile looked at cocky as his sister’s.

“I’ll give you my new address.”

…

Grog’s first kiss was important to him, but it was never a tale of love and monogamy; he and Merag never became a _couple. _They met up to make out a few times. They had fun. But that was it.

And they were both kissing other people.

The older Grog became, the more he enjoyed sneaking off to hidden corners with different girls. Each time, he felt a little bolder—he knew people found him appealing—and he discovered more aspects of physical intimacy. He allowed his partners to explore his body, and he _loved _learning how to pleasure them in return.

But Grog was oblivious to one aspect of his desires. He wasn’t the most observant person, after all. His father and his uncle both seemed to gravitate toward women, and he followed their example without thought.

Until, one day, at age fourteen, he saw two men kissing by the bonfire in the centre of camp. They were tangled close together, their laughter carrying through the smoky air, their muscled arms shining in the firelight. The other goliaths barely spared them a glance, as though this was nothing new.

Grog tipped his head to one side, curious. Why had it never occurred to him before?

He looked over to Zef—his most regular sparring partner—and his mind drifted back to the fight they had that afternoon. He saw it with new eyes. Zef had been teasing him beforehand, heat in the air, and a smirk on his lips. They’d both worn very little. And their bodies had pressed together as they tussled in the dust, like the two lovers in the shadows.

He considered sliding close to Zef right away. Perhaps linking their fingers in the firelight, and leaning to whisper in his ear…

But he decided against it, unsure about the feeling.

And for the rest of the week, he couldn’t shake off his new fantasies. He walked the camp, and spotted more couples: men with men and women with women. He felt a little stupid for not recognising it before.

Some surprised him, too. There was an old goliath named Tokka who often fed him choice pieces from her stew pot and passed on sage advice. She shared a tent with one of their wisest warriors—a tall woman with a long grey braid and an intricate tattoo across her forehead. Now, when he passed their section of the campsite, her saw Tokka kiss her goodbye as she left for a hunt, and pieces of a puzzle clicked together in his mind.

“Mamma Tokka?” he asked, approaching.

“Grog,” she greeted. “Come sit with me.”

She patted the space beside her hearth. She was stirring something in a pot, and he joined her eagerly.

“You look troubled,” she said.

“I guess I am.” Grog paused. He wasn’t good at explaining complicated emotions. But Tokka seemed happy to wait. “It’s nothing huge. It’s just that I didn’t know- that sometimes- do you know…”

She raised a brow, gruff despite her kindness. “Spit it out, kid. You look tormented.”

Grog decided he’d better keep this simple.

“You know Zef?” he asked. “Could I kiss him?”

Tokka seemed surprised. She sat back for a moment, considering the question.

“I suppose you could,” she said. “But Grog, that may be very serious.”

“Oh?”

“Well, Zef is your closest match as a warrior. He fights well alongside you and will likely continue to be paired with you in the battles of your future.”

Grog grinned. “Yeah.”

“He sounds like he may be a potential blade husband.”

“A blade husband?” Grog asked.

He'd heard the term before, attached to certain pairs of warriors, especially in famous stories. But he’d never asked what it actually meant. He’d assumed it was just a word for skilled fighters.

“It’s a tradition of the herd,” Tokka said. “When a romantic and physical relationship develops between two warriors of the same gender who fight together every day, who place their lives on the line in complete trust, the bond can be intense. The connection is… unrivalled. They are considered to be mated for life.”

Grog’s eyes bulged.

“I, myself, hold the title of blade wife,” she continued. “And I never regret it. But I would also never say that our tradition is flawless. It comes with its own problems. Its own expectations.”

She smiled ruefully, and reached out to pat him on the shoulder.

“Grog, you’re so young. I know you enjoy your… adventures with many young people about camp. If you choose to begin this bond with Zef, the herd will be uncompromising. They will expect it to last forever.”

A foggy panic was rising in Grog. This felt so new—tenuous and special and delicate as a thread of spider silk. He didn’t want to be bound to it. He didn’t want to shatter its beauty by setting it in stone. And the expectations of others had always weighed so heavily on his shoulders.

“It’s still a choice you can make,” Tokka continued, her voice softer now, seeing the expressions chasing each other across his face. “But I hope you will consider it carefully.”

“I will,” Grog said.

Tokka smiled fondly.

“Good,” she said. “Now, are you hungry?”

Soon enough, Grog was cradling a small bowl of stew, Tokka's words still whirring through his mind. He shoved a spoon of meat into his mouth, chewed it, considered.

He could either have Zef forever. Committed from age fourteen to a single soul who had popped into his mind at random by the fireside. Or he could continue to have fun.

Grog knew which choice seemed better. The whole concept of blade husbands was too complicated for him anyway. He didn’t quite know whether it applied to any bond he might make with another man, or simply to one as well matched in fighting as Zef. Perhaps he would stick to women, where there was none of that expectation. Where he didn’t have to over-think until his head hurt.

If he’d shared those thoughts out loud, Tokka might have explained in a little more detail. She might have elaborated on the parts of the herd’s gendered traditions that she found problematic. She might have told him that he could still experiment with other men as much as he wanted.

But Grog didn’t say anything. He packed away his silent assumptions.

…

Shaun and Niranjan had been writing love letters. They went back and forth, carried by the merchant caravans who came through town on their way to Ank’Harel.

_My dearest Shaun, _each one began.

_My sweet Niranjan, _he replied.

They’d started slowly. Shaun shared updates on everything happening in Shandal, from their classes to the local town gossip to the changing of the seasons. Niranjan, in turn, would share every detail of his adventures. He described their new house, beneath a black stone building, with a blue tiled bathing pool in their courtyard. He talked about the rush of the city—the crowds and heat and noise of the markets by day—and the stillness of the desert night. He explained what Nimi was up to.

And over time, the letters grew increasingly romantic. Niranjan’s _I miss you_s became specific: your eyes, your laughter, the way you looked when the first rains of the new season fell, and you ran outside, soaked to the skin and radiant with joy. Then suggestive: your beautiful hands, your soft lips, the boldness in your every action, in your steady gaze, which could pin me to my knees in reverence.

Shaun ached every time he finished a letter. He reread them a thousand times, sitting in his rooftop spot, face flushed and warm. He hid them in a box under his bed, so they would never be lost.

At some point, he told his parents how serious he felt. They spoke fondly and softly of the joys of young love, and arranged a trip to Ank’Harel for the next holiday.

Shaun was restless for the entire ride there. When they entered the city, he craned his neck to take in every sight. Some were familiar, painted in Niranjan’s sprawling handwriting in the back of his mind. And as they turned past an intersection laden with grapefruit trees, Shaun knew they were drawing near. He pointed ahead to the black stone house, and the family gathered right in front.

Shaun barely waited for their ride to stop. He leapt to the ground and sprinted into Niranjan’s open arms.

“Shaun!” Niranjan gasped.

His laugh was like a cool splash of water. His arms were solid, reassuring. They held each other one long moment, and then Shaun graced his boyfriend’s cheeks with a shower of kisses, making his giggle soar higher.

“I’m here too!” Nimi called, her tone full of affection despite her feigned annoyance.

“I know,” Shaun said, not tearing his eyes off Niranjan.

They finally loosened their hold, stepping back to really look at one another.

Niranjan was taller, suddenly, from that year they’d been apart. And although he didn’t quite match Shaun’s height, his shoulders had filled out with muscle, his jaw a little sharper. Shaun suddenly felt very round and large and clumsy beside him. But then he noticed the glowing adoration on Niranjan’s face—the awe.

“You look even more beautiful than I remembered,” Niranjan confessed, and ducked his head, because these things were much easier to admit on paper.

“You do too,” Shaun said.

And then he turned to greet the others.

The holiday was amazing. Shaun and Niranjan explored the city together, spent time with their families, and snatched many moments alone. They visited grand temples with intricate mosaics, and pointed giddily at a portrayal of two men entwined, looking enough like them to make them laugh. They lay about in the blue bathing pool in the afternoons, sipping mango and yogurt and baking in the sun. They trekked through sprawling markets, buying cheap street food with their meagre bronze coins, and perusing expensive magical artefacts, pretending they could afford them.

Afterward, Niranjan asked Shaun what he thought of the shops, remembering how he often spoke of opening his own. Shaun was almost shy, but he showed off some sketches of possible shopfronts, and the outlines of how he could finance them. His boyfriend was impressed and unendingly supportive.

And then he wanted to confess his own dreams.

“You know how my Amma moved here to work for another wizard?” Niranjan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, it means we’re kind of involved in some magical communities. And Nimi and I have been spending a lot of time in their libraries and stuff. And looking at different sorts of arcana.” He dipped his head in that characteristic shy way of his. “And Nimi thinks she might want to be a wizard too. She’s looking into it. And I- I want to be…”

He was silent for a while. Shaun took his hand.

“Yes?”

“It sounds stupid. I’ve just loved writing to you, and I always liked stories, and it got me thinking. I- I think I want to be a bard. A storyteller. Like the ones J'mon Sa Ord employs to live in cities across Marquet, who weave protection for their charges with the power of their words.”

“That sounds amazing, Niran,” Shaun gasped, his whole face lighting up. The idea made so much sense, and he could see how important it was to Niranjan, despite his attempts to be dismissive. “You have such a way with words. I really think it could work.”

“I don’t know,” Niranjan said. “It’s kind of a silly dream.”

“No,” Shaun took his hand. “It’s not. You just need to have more confidence.”

And he meant it. He wanted Niranjan to follow his dreams, even if they lead him halfway across Marquet.

The next day, it was time for Shaun to leave, to get back home before school began. Niranjan barely let go of his hand, and when he climbed aboard the cart to exit town, both of their cheeks were wet with tears. They promised to keep writing as often as they could. But there was something new between them—a seed of change—of new dreams pulling them slowly apart.

...

...


	2. Two Lost Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was intense. Gilmore's experiences are inspired by my own family history in Sri Lanka, so I had a real emotional time writing it. Hope you enjoy your read...

Only a month after Grog discovered the concept of blade husbands, the thought was pushed right out of his mind by something far more horrible and life-shattering.

It began with a hunt.

Grog, who was almost fifteen years old (though his father hardly bothered keeping track) had recently proved the depth of his skills with an axe. As a result, he was invited to the great chase that marked the end of autumn, and placed in a position of honour, in the group lead by his uncle, Kevdak.

He’d been out with small parties before, of course. The herd held no strict definition of childhood, and wanted even their youngest warriors to gain experience. If they died rather than learning to do better, they would’ve been too weak to make it anyway.

But that particular hunt was more important than usual. Or perhaps it only felt that way, to Grog, in hindsight.

Shortly after dawn, their hunting party stormed through the forest, feet marking the early snows that heralded the coming winter. Their weapons were ready, their blood running high. They bellowed with excitement—with hazy greed—certain of their power. And, suddenly, they broke through a line of trees to find a tiny figure, carrying a satchel, and pushing a cart of vegetables.

When Kevdak let out a roar, the hunters responded, howling, rushing their new, unsuspecting prey.

Though the creature gasped, attempting to stumble away, he was forced to face reality. He was already enclosed: trapped by a circle of goliaths, dressed for a fight, covered in clear rings of warpaint over their vivid, geometric tattoos.

“What’s _this_?” Kevdak grinned, his face a shock of gleaming teeth and wild eyes. “Must be the smallest man I’ve ever seen. But perhaps he’s got a gift for us.”

Grog looked down at the object of their attention. And though his heart had been beating in tandem with his group as they ran, he felt it jump now. He felt it squeeze in his chest.

Their target was a gnome: barely knee-high, with pointed ears, and wisps of white hair across his dark head. As he trembled, a pair of thick-framed glasses went sliding down his nose. He tried to shove them back up, as though seeing his attackers would help him at all.

But he had courage. He stammered out an answer to Kevdak, barely audible over the shouts of the herd.

And Grog felt a surge of recognition. He knew that expression. He knew that kind of fear. He felt as though he were staring into his own eyes, at the complicated mingling of defiance and terror that echoed through every year he’d been alive—through every moment his stronger, faster, better father intimidated and battered him without mercy.

And suddenly, Grog was _thinking_; beyond the captivating energy of the mob, he was turning the situation over in his mind.

This was no different from his childhood. This wasn’t fair either.

“Looks like an easy meal, ae?” Kevdak asked, placing a foot in front of the gnome’s produce cart.

The other goliath thundered in response. Most of them were already baring their teeth, tucking weapons away, cracking knuckles. Grog had seen similar behaviour before, at a distance. He knew members of the herd made sport of pulling apart animals by hand, just to prove their strength. This wasn’t about the vegetables, really. It was much more than that.

Tears sprang to the eyes of the old gnome, magnified by his specs.

A surge of pity tore through Grog. And his emotions had always been strong—always singular in focus. He acted on impulse.

“Uncle,” he interrupted. “That’s not a fair fight.”

Kevdak’s face was cold. He turned to Grog.

“_What_ did you just say?”

There was warning in his tone. But Grog didn’t care. He was angry now, defensive. And still full of adrenaline.

“I said it’s not fair. He’s so much smaller than us. He’s just making his way home. What’s the fun in this? What’s it prove?”

“I think the fun is clear.” Kevdak ground his teeth together. “Or would you like to ask again?”

He stepped forward, extending to his full height. The other goliaths snickered, cold and sharp.

Grog met Kevdak partway, angling his body so the gnome was behind him. He caught a glimpse of the little guy’s face—surprise, a touch of sympathetic worry, and a shivering kind of relief—a measure of hope. It bolstered Grog further. He’d never felt as powerful as he did then, knowing he could protect someone.

And then Kevdak’s fist caught him in the jaw.

The pain was blinding, shocking. His uncle wasn’t holding back. It wasn’t the lazy blow of a training match. It was intended to get him on the ground.

Laughter burst out from the other warriors. Grog was glad to feel his rage, igniting quickly. He nursed it into flames, aimed a volley of hits at his uncle. He knew he might curl up and cry if he wasn’t angry. He knew fear might take him completely. He tried to be consumed.

And Grog aimed his hits well, as he’d been taught. But Kevdak had years of training. Years of teaching.

“You little _shit_,” Kevdak said, almost impressed, but not quite. 

He slammed another punch toward his nephew’s stomach, rings slicing into the two hands Grog raised to block him. Grog gasped at the metallic sting, and hurled a fist upward, hungry to see blood, to hear the cracking sound of a breaking nose.

Kevdak caught his wrist.

“You fight like you father used to,” he laughed. He eyes narrowed, cold. “I know your moves, little Stonejaw.”

The mention of his father was like a splash of frigid water. With Kevdak’s next hit, Grog felt himself falter. His anger was slipping from his grasp, and he couldn’t seem to save it. The attack felt less like a fight, and more like a beating. More like a danger. More like he was completely alone.

But he wasn’t. The gnome was there too. The gnome needed him.

Grog’s focus splintered. He glanced back. The instinct of battle had guided him so far, keeping his new charge hidden behind him and unharmed. But now, his rage trickling away, panic seemed a stronger instinct.

And what he saw—behind the tiny figure huddled at his back—was a wall of other goliaths. Kevdak’s company certainty outweighed his own.

The distracted moment couldn’t have lasted longer than a second. But Kevdak took full advantage. He swept Grog’s feet out from under him and slammed him to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Give up, yet?” Kevdak asked.

And Grog swallowed his fear. He could still be brave. He could still do that.

“Never.”

Kevdak paused—raised his brows at the other goliaths.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll take this all the way.”

And he stepped on Grog’s forearm with a sickening snap.

Instantly, the gnome was forgotten by the other goliaths. They swarmed forward with their leader, grabbing limbs to tug their new target upright, to hold him in place.

Because they did agree with Grog, in a way. Where was the fun in beating up an elderly gnome? That was nothing compared to teaching a lesson to one of their own—punishing his failure and cementing their own sense of belonging.

Grog should have been stronger, smarter, better. He should have known the herd was supreme in all ways. He should never have questioned their power, nor the way they chose to exert it.

So they let the old gnome slip, unnoticed, between the trees, sprinting as fast as his ancient legs would allow.

Only Grog saw him go, though blood was trickling into his eyes now, and his body was a mess of agony. He wondered, numbly, if it was worth it. Would his legacy be one small life? One chance to deal his own justice? If he couldn’t uphold the order of the herd, or take joy in enforcing his natural might and strength over weaker beings, had it been enough to pick his own path? To make his own choice?

Swallowed by pain, he didn’t find an answer.

And the herd beat their young warrior to a bloody pulp: scarlet falling on the dusty white of winter’s first snow.

…

Shaun and Niranjan were quickly swept away in the daily patterns of life. They visited each other about twice a year, but most communications had to be left to their letters.

Niranjan was practising his specific kind of bardic magic. He buried himself deep in tomes on arcana and history, learning how protective spells and community stability could be woven together with the power of words. He sat at the firesides of great storytellers from ancient traditions of oration. He attended preliminary selection meetings with J’mon Sa Ord’s advisors. He dreamed of which cities he might be assigned to one day.

He told Shaun everything in beautiful, flowing letters, which improved as he studied his craft, passion radiating from every page.

Shaun’s own replies were filled with similar enthusiasm. He was enjoying his schoolwork more every day. As he grew older, classes were catered to match the interests of the students. And though the teachers in Shandal were never trained for his specific, immersive interest in small business, foreign markets, and the trade of magical items, they tried their best to give him what he needed. They sent away for books from Ank’Harel and other merchant cities, and over time, even made contact with a few schools in Tal’Dorei.

But Shaun could never be happy simply sitting behind a desk. He practiced magic in his spare time. And most afternoons, after helping his parents with chores, he made his way to the middle of town, for a different sort of lesson.

Unsurprisingly, the quiet oasis in the desert was a welcome attraction for merchant caravans. As they navigated their way to and from Ank’Harel (which was an adventure in itself, considering there were no real roads in the area) they often visited the central spring of Shandal.

The area was surrounded by flat, red rocks, ochre sand, and rows of tall palms. Locals were usually washing their clothes in one of the clear pools, socialising with one another, unhurried in the warmth of the sun. Some brought woven mats and settled for the day. They might brew tea or fry food, which they would sell to the caravans and share with each other. Some even offered their services as guides to Ank’Harel.

Shaun quickly became a known face by the springs. He lit small fires, sometimes, to brew spiced chocolate drinks the way his mother taught him. But mostly, he just wanted to meet the merchants.

He had a certain charm about him—growing into a refined, cheerful young man with a ready smile. It didn’t take long for people to become invested.

So, Shaun brought a blank leather-bound book, and took rigorous notes as he spoke to the merchants. He hoped to gather something from their victories, which he complimented enthusiastically, and from their failures, which he spun into light conversation so well that no one felt embarrassed to confess their worst mistakes.

One day, an old merchant named Tamir came through the spring, and dealt with her business rather quickly before settling beside Shaun.

She was a regular guest, a familiar face, and the mere sight of her was enough to impress—covered in bright jewels and patterned scarves. Though she was short, even for a halfling, she travelled with fifteen immense camels, who seemed attuned to her every command, as obedient as such animals could ever be. And of course, Tamir carried the weight of her coin, with the confidence of a seasoned professional. 

She sat for a while before speaking to Shaun, arranging her creaky legs carefully, and nodding to acknowledge his polite greeting.

“You must be nearly eighteen?” she asked at last.

“Yes,” Shaun said, giving her an immediate answer, as she was accustomed. “I’m seventeen now, but almost eighteen.”

“And you’ll be finishing school soon? End of the rainy season?”

“Yes, Auntie,” he said, pulling out the respectful title for its measure of charm, wondering where the conversation was going.

As expected, Tamir grinned. One of her teeth was gold: a canine, sharpened to a point. A sign of wealth and eccentric style all at once.

“Looking for work?”

Shaun held back a cheer of excitement, though his eyes shone with happiness.

“Yes, Auntie. What kind of work?”

“The kind I believe you’re looking for, if that notebook of yours is any indication,” she said, inclining her head. “The kind of work that builds good merchants, if you’ve a sharp enough mind, and a willingness to learn. I would hope to hire you for my own business.”

Shaun grinned.

“Now, kid, hear me out. It may not be exactly what you’re looking for. I’ve no place open in Ank’Harel right now, but the other end of my trade route’ll land you down in Saffron City. Trade is good there—a lot of rich youth with gold to spare. You would take care of my main store front, welcome the more elite clientele seeking an audience with my husband, and see how well you can keep score of trends and fashions.”

Shaun opened his mouth to speak.

“Ah,” she stopped him, “don’t rush in yet. Think on it. I’ll be back in two days. Give me your answer then.”

“Okay,” said Shaun. “I’ll think about it. Thank you, Auntie.”

Tamir reached out to give his shoulder a fond squeeze. Then hauled herself upright, making her way back to the far side of the spring. Shaun watched her go. He couldn’t believe what had just happened—he would need to write it all down before he forgot. But first, he leaned back against the stone, and laughed in carefree delight.

He told his parents everything that evening, and they were as supportive as he would have expected.

They knew a bit about Saffron City already. The southern settlement sat right where the land peaked into small hills, at the feet of the mountains. It was the last safe place before travellers passed through to the dangers of the Suuthan Volcano and the clans that worshipped it. The climate there was humid, with a small swathe of lush jungle curling around the city’s western edge—a fresh, interesting landscape, even if it was a part of familiar old Marquet.

It was also a hub of education, with a popular local university, and a brilliant place for trade of the magical variety.

Opesa and Soren knew Shaun would accept the job before he’d even finished speaking. They promised to help him with whatever he needed. From the back of the hearth, they withdrew a small pouch. Inside, they’d been keeping a measure of savings for their only child, from the day he was born.

Shaun cried when they handed it over, and they quickly fell into tears as well. They wrapped their arms around him, though he was far larger than them already. They told him how much they loved him, and would love him, forever.

Later, Shaun went upstairs to write a letter to Niranjan.

He sent it the next morning, wishing he could get an instant response. But, of course, that wasn’t possible, and things moved quickly while he waited. Tamir returned to Shandal and signed him on officially, gifting him a thick brass ring emblazoned with her symbol. She promised to pick him up in a month, after he’d finished school, and passed his eighteenth birthday.

Then, three nights before Shaun left Shandal, a reply from Niranjan arrived, so heavy in his hands that he felt it might be weighted down with magic.

_My dearest Shaun,_

_We write so rarely now. I think, some days, I could hardly miss anything as much as the sight of your curly script, spelling my name; or, a worse agony, the sight of your smiling face and the touch of your lips. Yet on other days, it begins to feel natural, not being in contact with you. I wonder if our worlds are simply drifting apart, too far and too fast for us to stop them. _

_Perhaps we’ll be strangers in the future. Perhaps our love will transform into something nostalgic. _

_I know, from our recent correspondence, that you feel the same change. You know as well as I do that this bond wasn’t built to last forever. After all, it began with me leaving you. And, as your heart yearns for Tal’Dorei and mine puts down roots in Marquet, I wonder if it will end with you leaving me._

_I wonder if the ache of our distance feels better because its shared, and understood by us both. It’s not a sudden end. It’s like a bruise, tenderly healing._

_There was a chance, wasn’t there, that we might have come together again? I know you joked in your last letter that I could be assigned to Saffron City, and we would know the gods had worked their will. But I received my assignment today. I am not going to Saffron city. I won’t even be close. My town will be Khahish, in the dry north. It feels right, somehow. J’mon Sa Ord and their team are gifted in this kind of magic. They know which storyteller to match with which settlement. _

_I will always be thankful for you, Shaun. I hope we stay in touch. I want to watch the passage of your remarkable life._

_Yours, for now, though perhaps not forever,_

_Niranjan_

Shaun’s eyes were wet when he finished reading.

He turned the parchment over in his hands, and an absent part of his mind awoke—a sense which, so far, had been under the surface. His earlier thought, that the letter felt magical, returned tenfold, with real power behind it.

He pulled out the pretty box under his bed, and opened the lid.

Each letter lying inside was pure and perfect. They were gifts of first love, frozen in time. And now, running his fingertips down the stack of parchment, Shaun could feel more magic sparking under his touch.

All at once, he understood. Even before Niranjan knew what he was doing, he’d woven protection and solace into his writing. He’d built a spell around his connection with Shaun and his love of Shandal. Even when the two boys travelled far away, these letters could remain, in the box, under the bed. Their magic would settle over the tiny oasis town, which hadn’t been quite big enough to hold them. And their legacies would linger on.

…

The goliaths left their youngest warrior for dead. They vanished into the woods, elated, to continue their hunt in higher spirits.

Grog’s cheek was pressed against the frigid forest floor, his neck too weak to lift his head, one eye swollen shut. He was caked in his own blood, extremities fading out numb. With every heartbeat—every pulse—he lost a little more of his life. And there was nothing he could do. He’d been abandoned completely.

He let his other eye close. As though resting. Waiting for the end.

And when he heard the sound of footsteps, he thought he was hallucinating. There was no other explanation for why someone would come close right now, on this rarely travelled path. But the noise was hard to ignore. It was fast, slamming through trees and low brush, cracking sticks, coming straight for him.

Perhaps someone was coming to finish the job?

But they were too quick to be a goliath—sturdy, but small, a whole smattering of steps for every one of his own.

Perhaps it was only Grog’s heartbeat? A trick of the woods?

His eyelids flickered open, and he caught a glimpse of something. A figure in blue emerged from the trees, her path direct.

She was as short as the gnome he’d tried to save, with a swoop of dark hair flying behind her, and something bright and gold bouncing against her chest. The closer she came, the more her face clarified, until she was skidding to a stop beside him, falling right to her knees.

Grog caught undiscernible flickers of emotion chasing each other in her eyes. He must have been delirious, though, because his instinct was to trust her. To accept whatever help she tried to give.

“Sarenrae, guide me,” she murmured.

And she reached out a steady hand. In seconds, he felt warmth, akin to his favourite bearskin—his safest place—claiming him to the world of sleep, emanating from the place the stranger touched.

The next time he opened his eyes, the dirt beneath him had been replaced by downy pillows, and he was lying on his back. He saw wooden rafters looming close overhead, and felt a breeze coming from a single window. His nerves were alight with raw fire.

“_What_…” he groaned.

“Oh!” gasped frail voice beside his bed. “Pike! He’s awake!”

A thundering of footsteps, their pace familiar, clattered closer, echoing strangely around corners. Grog turned toward the sound. He saw the old gnome he’d rescued, sitting in a large, plush chair by the bedside. He saw a door swinging open.

And there she was—that figure from the woods, whose warm, worn hands felt so much like home. She dashed straight to his side, and pressed fingers to his face

“You’re awake,” she said happily. “And your fever is dropping.”

Grog opened his mouth to reply, but found he couldn’t form words. Hot tears were burning in his eyes—her gentle touch too much to manage—and he shut them quickly, ashamed. He awaited scorn, brought by his sign of weakness.

“Oh dear, you poor thing,” she said instead. “Sleep all you need, okay?”

_Okay, _Grog tried to answer. But his mouth never moved.

His limbs and head felt heavy. They were tugged toward unconsciousness.

The gnome in the chair asked a quiet question, and they both talked over him for a while. He was content to listen, halfway to sleep. He discovered their names—Pike for the young one, and Grandpa Wilhand for the old—and picked up on some details of the conversation, though many made no sense to him.

Apparently, Wilhand had run a direct route through the snow to fetch Pike, bringing his frail body close to something called _hypothermia_. He’d told her about the young goliath who stood up for him, and she’d raced off immediately, leaving him to follow once he found a cart big enough to carry the body. Pike was young, and new to her calling (whatever that was), and unaccustomed to the intensity of Grog’s injuries. But someone called Sarenrae (that breath of a name cast over Grog in the midst of his agony?) had helped.

Grog wasn’t sure what it meant. He fell asleep trying to think.

The next couple of weeks were hazy. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind a swirl of detached thoughts.

Wilhand explained how the gnomes had healed him through magic, but that Grog’s lingering agony was caused by fever, brought on by shock, the cold forest floor, and the filth he’d been lying in. He also apologised, saying they might have taken more pain away, but couldn’t afford such expensive spells.

Besides, they weren’t sure what that would do to Grog’s mental state—to be suddenly torn out of a healing process when he’d been through so much trauma.

“If you had somewhere important to be, we would have made it work,” Wilhand said. “But we figured you deserved a long, proper rest. Just make sure you tell us, if you do want to leave.”

“I don’t want to,” Grog said, perhaps too quickly. “N-not yet.”

Later, he examined his own body in the candlelight. He had a few scars, already, from days of living with the herd, and those were still there. But there was nothing new. His skin was healed and pale, with the fresh feeling of an old scab removed. Totally unmarked. As though he’d never been beaten at all.

He looked out of his window at the largest moon. She was waxing—a tiny curl of silver—fresh and undecided. Just like him. 

…

When Shaun Geddmore turned twenty one, there were people screaming on the streets.

An hour before, everything had been perfectly quiet. Shaun was preparing for his birthday party. The airy courtyard of Tamir’s gorgeous house was decked out with low tables, laden with fruit and cocktails, purple drapes billowing in the breeze. In the background, the trickle of an elegant fountain formed beautiful music. Guests would start arriving once the heat of noon lifted off of Saffron City.

“My dear boy,” Tamir said, appearing at Shaun’s side as he laid wedges of lemon along a bright blue dish. “You’re working far too hard. This is supposed to be your special day.”

Shaun laughed.

“You know I like to keep busy.”

“Yes,” she said. “But don’t forget to have fun, alight? At least for the afternoon.”

Shaun arranged a smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m always the life of the party.”

He waved his fingers theatrically, and returned to plating hors d’oeuvres. Tamir pursed her lips.

“Lahi told me your parents couldn’t make it.”

Shaun shot a glance at Tamir’s human husband, who was faithfully sprinkling flower petals on the edges of the fountain. He should have told them both _after_ the party. Now they would be worried about him.

“The road is closed, due to the Suuthan cultists,” Shaun said. “That’s all.”

Tamir’s brow creased. The fanatics who worshipped the volcano became bolder every day, but they felt distant still, with only mild impacts on daily life. It was frustrating to have them ruin something like this. 

“I know you miss them though,” she said. “I’m sorry they couldn’t come.”

Shaun shrugged it off.

“I’ll see them another time. There’s plenty more for me to do today.”

As the hour passed, no guests appeared, and the household began to worry. There were so many people invited, it was impossible they might all be late. Shaun had made plenty of friends in Saffron City—business associates, drinking buddies, drawn out flirtations. All had been told they were welcome. The party was meant to be huge.

And then swells of sound began to reach the house.

“What is that?” Tamir murmured.

She went to the front door. Down the street, curious heads peaked out from doors and windows, and the sound continued to grow, almost like the noise of a festival day. But different. Full of urgency, tinted dark and sinister.

With a resounding crash from the garden door, Tamir’s half-orc groundskeeper sprinted into the room.

“M’am, we have a problem!” she called.

Tamir, Lahi, and Shaun gathered around. She was panting, bent over. Her young daughter hovered nervously in the open doorway behind her.

“The Suuthan cultists sprang a surprise attack on the border this morning,” Jaetha said. “They had allies in the city. Extremists who turned on their neighbours and started setting buildings alight. They’ve already torn through most of the art district.”

“The art district?” Tamir gasped.

It was close to their home—art and merchant affairs often bleeding together. And who knew how many mouths the news had passed through before reaching them. The danger could already be on their doorstep.

“They were heading this way. Targeting any house without a shrine out front.”

“We have a shrine—”

“No, it has to be a firepit shrine. They take it as a signal of loyalty. To the volcano.”

Tamir nodded, absorbing the information.

“Then we must evacuate,” she said.

They stared at each other for a moment. The shift of mood was so surreal. If the cultists hoped to overwhelm the city with the element of surprise, they’d certainly made a good start. Shaun’s eyes drifted to the broad arches of the courtyard, and he gasped.

Smoke was rising over the horizon—thick and suffocating.

They scattered to begin evacuation.

Tamir called the other household staff—a cleaner, two servers ready to help with the party, and a cook. Lahi brought out their two best camels, and hitched them to a cart, and everyone began piling their essential belongings on board.

Shaun raced upstairs. His bedroom was larger than half the house he’d grown up in and had always felt too spacious and wide. Like a life borrowed from someone else. He gathered his old belongings in barely a minute, added a few of the best outfits he’d been given in his new line of work, and took out an embroidered purse with his savings. How frivolous the last few years seemed now: a glamorous life in Saffron City, ended in a blurry afternoon.

Everyone was in tears when Shaun joined them in the cart; they were leaving their lives behind; they were losing everything they’d ever known.

He wrapped his arms around the groundskeeper’s little daughter, letting her tears soak into his robe, and Lahi urged the camels into action. He could feel a space opening in his heart—a tenderness for refugees like these.

The streets were clogged with panic. People ran everywhere, children cried, and laden carriages filled the streets. Progress was slow between scattered crowds. But with the smoke on the horizon growing denser, they knew they’d made the right decision.

“Once we pass the swamp road, we’ll be fine. Past the damp and then the desert, the fire can’t follow.” Tamir said, always logical.

Lahi was holding her hand tight. He looked close to fainting.

“Jaetha!” someone yelled, pressing through bodies around their cart, waving at the groundskeeper.

“Su’jal, thank goodness! You’re alright!” Jaetha gasped.

Though the others had never met the approaching elven family, they shuffled aside immediately, making space. The woman hauled her three children into the cart before joining them. She hugged Jaetha tightly.

“We ran from the art distract as soon as the attack began,” she said. “We had a shrine near our house, so they didn’t target us, and we had time to escape. But I know the fire would have spread anyway. The poor flats are so packed together.”

She let out a bitter laugh. Her youngest, spotting the other child on Shaun’s lap, climbed into his arms as well. He held on tight.

“What do you know?” Tamir asked. “We only heard a little.”

“We’ve heard all sorts while walking. People are confused, but they agree on the basics.” Su’jal was still standing, since there was so little space in the cart, but it gave her an air of authority. “The attack was planned long ago, when the volcano’s rumbling grew strong. We all know the cultists resent Saffron City, since we always refused their faith. So they began aiming to make converts within our walls. Or they simply moved into open houses, to lie in wait.”

“Yes, we heard there were people turning on their neighbours.” Jaetha said.

Su’jal nodded. “Plus, being here gave them a chance to scope out the area, seeing which houses had firepit shrines. Even if the shrines aren’t dedicated to the Suuthan, they still see them as a sign of open hearts.”

“And why attack now?”

“As far as we can tell, it’s because of the full moon. They want their smoke to obscure the sky tonight, as a great offering to the volcano. Perhaps even to spur its eruption, to blacken out the sun as well.”

They all glanced at the dark haze behind them. Su’jal continued, in a softer voice, as though that would shield the children, who’d already seen so much horror.

“Some say, at midnight, there will be a larger sacrifice.”

“What kind?”

“Someone magical, thrown into the volcano itself. It could be a volunteer from among their number. But they’re also asking around, chasing rumours of rune children.”

Shaun hid his expression well, and was glad to see no one turn his way. Tamir and Lahi were the only ones who knew what he was.

“They’re calling them ‘the branded,’” Su’jal scoffed. “As if their damned volcano god had anything to do with this. Or would mark sorcerers for death by giving them power. It’s nonsense.”

“It’s worse than nonsense.” Tamir said. “It’s a lie that proved convincing enough to gain traction.”

In the ominous mood that followed, they continued to ask questions of Su’jal, and she answered what she could. Shaun watched the conversation as through staring through painted glass, too numb, too overwhelmed to respond.

…

By the end of his second week in the house, Grog was well enough to walk around, and now regularly talking with his rescuers. He learned a little of their background, from the meaning of the Trickfoot name, to the connection with their patron. In turn, he shared some of his own life story. He was surprised to hear the terrors of his childhood were unusual, and cried three times in the face of their kindness and sympathy.

But Grog was scared. He kept remembering how they couldn’t afford the most intense healing magic, and he stared at the empty bowls left after his meals, aware of how much money he must he costing them. He wondered when they would be done with him—when they would kindly cast him back out on the streets, with no future and no home and no family.

One evening, Grog traipsed his way downstairs, looking for Pike, and knocked his forehead into the doorframe of the kitchen.

“Grog!” Pike gasped.

She was at his side suddenly, looking like an older sister taking care of a toddler, and she tugged him onto a bench—the only kind of seat in the house that would fit his hips. As she examined his skull, she scolded him.

“You should look where you’re going! If you weren’t so hardy…”

But stopped herself in the middle of the sentence. All traces of frustration left her face. She looked at him softly, gently instead.

“If you weren’t so hardy, you’d be gone,” she whispered.

Grog thought about that. It was true. Other creatures might have died if they were beaten like that. Other _goliaths _might have died.

His thoughts were in a dark place though, as his future loomed over him. And he wondered if death might not have been so bad. His next words slipped out with more honesty than he’d intended.

“Wish I wasn’t so hardy then.”

Pike stilled. She looked up at him for a long time.

“I’m glad you’re hardy. I’m glad you’re alive. You have value, Grog. You’ll see.”

He didn’t understand what she meant. Value?

A hope lit up in his chest. He realised she might want him to work for her and Wilhand. Like a hired hand, or a servant, or even a guard. He could pay back his debt to them and protect them for as long as possible. Though he wasn’t family, he could at least live on the outskirts of it, and soak up what little positivity he could.

He stewed over the idea for a few more days. Until, one day, he found Pike in the kitchen again. She was making bread for their dinner, carefully measuring flour with worry in the pull of her brows. She spotted him standing there, and beckoned him over.

“Take a seat, Grog. I’d like to talk to you.”

He folded onto his usual bench. Pike began to knead the dough, considering her next words, and Grog waited, ready for her to request his labour, fully prepared to accept. Instead, she took a different approach.

“I want to thank you properly for what you did,” she began. “I know we haven’t discussed much of what your- of what happened in the forest. But Grandpa Wilhand told me what it looked like from his end. And I can’t imagine what inspired you to do something so brave, when you knew what the outcome might be.”

Grog shook his head.

“It wasn’t brave,” he said. “My uncle, the one who was leading us, is the bravest in the Herd of Storms. Everyone knows that. And we’re meant to follow him into any fight, no questions. But I couldn’t swallow my emotions. _I_ wasn’t brave enough.”

“Grog,” Pike said. There was a scowl on her face—honest and burning, but not quite directed at him. “That’s not what bravery is.”

“What?”

“Bravery is more than just fighting, and it’s certainly not about following orders.” She pounded the dough, turned it over in her hands. “Bravery is what _you_ did, Grog. It’s being scared, but pushing through. Doing the right thing even when you’re terrified.”

Grog was speechless.

Pike stretched and moulded the dough some more. She nodded toward the measure of flour sitting at her side and, their communication already becoming automatic, Grog reached out to sprinkle it on the table for her.

“Willhand shouldn’t have walked through the forest that way,” Pike continued, “but the snow blocked up his usual path, and he had to change. I wouldn’t have known where he was. Even if they didn’t kill him completely, he would have bled out in the snow. All for a cart of veges.”

“I didn’t think it was fair,” Grog said. “That’s all.”

“Grog,” Pike laid a white-dusted hand on his. “I would have lost my closest family if it weren’t for you.” Then, suddenly, she switched from the serious moment into levity, the way only she could. “Instead our little family has grown by a third.”

“I don’t know what a third is,” Grog said.

He wondered, a heartbeat late, if that would make him sound stupid. He knew that, in the city, they placed so much importance on those kinds of smarts. But Pike just nodded, absorbing the information. She returned to her kneading.

“It means you’re more than just a guest to us now. I know you’re pretty much healed, but I sense you don’t want to leave.”

He stayed silent, cheeks flushing.

“And we don’t want you to leave either,” she continued. “We want you to know that you’re welcome to stay. As long as you want. No strings attached. And be a part of our family.”

Grog was stunned. A shiver rippled over him.

“_Oh_,” he said.

“Not that you have to!” Pike said quickly. “You can leave whenever you want. But our home is open, that’s all.”

“Why?”

Her fingers reached up and brushed the pendant that hung over her pale blue tunic—standing out in gleaming gold.

“It feels right,” she said.

Grog’s throat constricted.

“Okay.” He squeezed his face up, and felt tears spill over, hot on his cheeks. “Okay, I want to stay.”

“_Grog,”_ Pike said.

She climbed up on the counter and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Body shaking with full sobs, he let himself melt, folded in her tiny embrace. She could barely fit him into a hug, but he felt safe beside her. He let his thoughts reshuffle—let them bring forward the word _sister._

And he knew he was going to survive.

…

When they reached the open desert road, Shaun felt like he could breathe again. Half of them climbed out of the carriage, too hot to stay packed so close, and travelled on foot beside the camels. Tamir was already mourning the animals she’d left behind, hoping desperately that they’d find their own way out of the city.

As he walked, Shaun turned his face toward the sky. He was glad he’d still see the moon tonight, even if blackness had blanketed the whole of Saffron City.

“Shaun,” Tamir called. “Can I walk with you a moment?”

“Of course.”

She climbed down from the cart, though Lahi shot her a worried look, and passed down a walking stick.

“Don’t worry,” Shaun said. “We’ll catch up soon. I’ll carry her if need be.”

“I may be a halfling,” Tamir grumbled. “But I can still walk as fast as you.”

“I think he was referring to your elderly state, my dear,” Lahi said.

Normally, that would have made them all laugh. Bur today, they only smiled—the exhausted, drained smiles of people who found themselves on shaky ground.

Shaun slowed his pace to match his halfling boss, and they watched the cart taking off ahead, passing out of ear shot. Jaetha and Su’jal were singing for the children, their voices the only thing that carried. It made for pleasant background music.

“So, dear,” Tamir began. “I have a lot to say to you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” She reached up, softly patting his hand. “You’ve been with me for so long now, it’s hard to remember my business before. And you’ve kept all your radiant Shandal charm, while somehow growing into a refined young merchant. I couldn’t be prouder if you were my own son.”

“Auntie,” Shaun said, surprised at the intensity of the sentiment. “Thank you. I did have an incredible model to follow.”

Tamir grinned.

“See? There’s the charm.” She shook her head. “Now, you know I’m ancient, and perhaps it’s made me too sentimental. But that’s- I owe you an apology.”

Shaun was stunned.

“What for?”

“For keeping you so long. Three years may seem a short time, but at your age, I know it can feel like forever. And you’re so talented, Shaun. You could have been getting experience in all sorts of magical places.”

“Auntie, every second working with you was valuable.”

“Still,” she said. “If I had let you go, perhaps you wouldn’t have been in the city, during all of this.”

She waved a hand at the dark horizon.

“Or I may have been there, living in a different house, and not been lucky enough to escape.”

Tamir pursed her lips.

“Perhaps. And yet…” she sighed. “What do you plan to do now?”

Shaun hesitated.

They’d seen so much on the way out of the city. People fleeing their homes, in tears, screaming the names of their loved ones. People handing out scraps of bright red and orange, which they hastily tied to their carts, ready to fake the position of Suuthan cultists if necessary.

And worse—worse than all of the emotional turmoil around them—the horses and carriages carrying the bodies of the wounded. The dying.

From human to halfling, there had been faces half charred and burned to blackness. There had been a young mother screaming, clinging to the ruined ash that used to be a baby in her arms, refusing to let go. There had been a sturdy young man, carried by injured friends on a wooden board, a vicious hand-made rune carved into his chest, in the mark of the Suuthan volcano, sputtering blood with his heartbeat.

Shaun shut his eyes. Opened them again. Saw the desert stretching in front of him. Safe and untarnished by images of horror, other than the endless line of refugees.

“I might go home. For a while. Gather my- my thoughts. Plan for the future.”

“Good,” Tamir said. “You deserve to heal.”

Shaun nodded.

“What about you?”

“Back to Ank’Harel. But first…”

She stopped, and Shaun followed suit. He watched her pull something from around her waist—a satchel of beautiful leather, worked to perfection, with shining buckles.

“You have to take this with you.”

She held it up to him, her expression serious, and, tentatively, he opened it.

“_Auntie, no!” _He instantly tried to hand it back. The bag was laden with gold, and jewels, and other finery, stuffed to the brim. “I can’t accept—”

“But it’s all yours,” she said, holding her hands up in refusal. “You earned every coin. Every magical artefact.”

“But—”

“It’s every profit you brought to our store,” Tamir said. “I know I paid you a wage, Shaun, but I earned _much_ more from your hard work than what I’ve given you so far. You deserve it all returned to you. And in time, you can use it to set up your shop in Tal’dorei.”

“But I-I wouldn’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to.” She reached up to pat his hand again, but he fell to his knees and kissed her palm, making her laugh. “I consider it an honour to have joined you for any part of your journey. Even if I did keep you selfishly to myself.”

Shaun stared at her, looked down at the weighty bag in his hands.

“You are _not _selfish, Auntie.”

“I am,” she said ruefully. “But I plan to change that now. And, Shaun, remember this. In halfling culture, it’s very rude to return gifts.”

So he had to keep the satchel.


	3. Collisions and Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... in the process of rewatching episodes and planning, I realised this fic will be longer than initially intended. but please enjoy this chapter! it's time for the grand first meeting! 
> 
> it's also the most you'll be getting of the vax x gilmore golden days. i'm sorry. that part was painful to write

Grog thrived at the Trickfoot house. With his tendency to throw himself, full-force, into everything he did, he became utterly dedicated to his new family.

After Pike’s beautiful, sincere invitation into their home, Grog stopped questioning their bond. It already felt right—felt honest and easy—deep in his gut. It had been forged in the intensity of life and death circumstances, after all. And that was something he could understand.

He became truly content for the first time in his life. He settled beautifully into being loved, and loving unconditionally in return.

From there, a routine fell into place. Grog chopped wood each morning with Pike, and was charmed by the ferocity he saw in his tiny, gentle sister. He sat at the warm dining table for every evening meal, and listened to Wilhand talk about Sarenrae. Every theological nuance passed far over his head, but he felt comfortable just soaking up the passionate conversation. He even made friends with other local youth, and learned how to manage his strength and enjoy himself as they wrestled, or explored, or raced each other through the streets.

Sometimes, the city was overwhelming, in its size and permanence, but he was mostly glad for it. He settled into the new definition of _home._

He had a few flings too. Or he developed little crushes, which he now confessed only to Pike, with far more honesty than the boastful atmosphere of the herd had allowed. The funniest conversations rose from the crushes they both shared (the human girl down the road with the quick wit and the freckles on her nose; the woman who sold herb bundles at the market, and gave them free mint leaves to chew, with a radiant smile on her face). But sometimes, Pike would mention the names of boys, and Grog, twisting worry in his stomach, would tease her and pretend he wasn’t interested. It was simply far too complicated to bear thinking about.

By the time they were in their twenties, they were completely inseparable. Their interests overlapped in many ways, and in the places they differed, their love for each other was more than enough to bridge the gap.

One of their biggest shared passions lay in the excitement of a good fight. Grog, of course, had been born right into combat. Pike, on the other hand, discovered her wild side when throwing herself into scraps in the name of justice. She defended Grog from taunts behind his back and come to the aid of bullied children in their neighbourhood. Her rough moments almost always bought her new respect in the eyes of whoever she was fighting. And, when they gave sincere apologies behind bleeding noses, she smiled serenely, the very image of her treasured, redemptive Sarenrae.

Together, the adopted siblings sought out a good spot in town to hone their skills and let loose a little. Soon enough, they came across a community arena. Paladins, and other temple-based warriors often practised in the rough-hewn stone circle, as well as trainee guards, and hopeful adventurers.

And there, among dirt, and spattered blood, and friendly cheering, something awoke inside of Grog.

He’d always been a brilliant warrior. Yet, before Westruun, every moment had been tainted. With every punch he threw, his head had echoed with his father’s sneering voice. With every turn of his feet, he’d felt judging eyes burning his back. The need to prove himself had twisted his stomach into anxious knots.

But now, he came alive; his body was alight with instinct and adrenaline. He sank into the patterns of each fight, his every muscle reacting and responding, as though flowing in a complicated, beautiful dance. He knew he was good at this. He could take pride in it.

And it was a choice, too.

When he was no longer _forced_ into constant strife, he realised he actually _enjoyed_ it. He wanted to follow that kind of adventure for the rest of his life…

“Pike,” he said one day, uncharacteristic worry in his tone. “You want to stay at the temple for a long time, right? Learning ‘bout Sarenrae and all that.”

They were sitting in their favourite tavern, enjoying large mugs of ale beside a roaring fire. The comforting sounds of friendly conversation rumbled all around, and overhead, through a window filled with indigo evening sky, both moons climbed above the city.

“Yeah,” Pike said. A smile twitched across her lips. “I can’t describe it Grog. I just _know. _That’s where she’s guiding me. That’s where I belong right now.”

“Thought so,” he said. He took a hurried breath, trying to decide how to explain his newest concerns. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking. I want…”

He stopped. Stared into his drink.

“Grog?”

He glanced up at her—dark blue eyes, brows creasing her forehead. The idea of letting her down, in any way, almost physically hurt.

“You look so worried,” she said. “Just tell me. You can tell me anything.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know how to say this.” Grog sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you. I- I want to leave Westruun.”

Her face remained unchanged. Not even a flicker of surprise. If anything, her shoulders loosened with relief.

“I figured you would, one day.”

Grog gaped at her.

“What?”

“Grog,” Pike laughed. “We have a lot in common, but we’re still different people. And we’re adults now. All grown up. So our paths were bound to split at some point. It’s only natural!”

“But,” he said. “I don’t…”

Again, he wasn’t sure how to articulate how badly he needed her. He felt foolish. But Pike understood, even without words.

“This isn’t the end,” she said. “We’re family now. We’ll see each other again.”

Her assurance settled over him, firm and certain.

“Aw,” he said quickly, putting on the goofy tone they used, whenever they were getting too sweet with one another, and felt they had to lighten the mood. “_Pikey_.”

“_Buddy,_” she cooed back.

And he smiled.

“Anyway, you’re right,” he decided. “We’ll always be best friends now.”

“I know.” She grinned. “I’m always right.”

And so, he began to seek out work. He was hired as a mercenary, or an adventurer, or occasionally a simple security guard. He loved some jobs, and hated others. He spent hours standing watch outside cold buildings, or trekking fruitlessly through damp forests, but he also rushed into spirited, risky battles, his heartbeat roaring with the thrill of a fight.

He found he was able to survive his new life well enough, eking out a living on the wings of chance.

But Grog had always been a social creature. He was raised with the rush of the herd, and then in the overflowing warmth of the Trickfoot house, where strays were always welcome, and Sarenrae’s light tumbled onto the streets. He began to miss companionship. He sought something more solid, wishing for a friendship that would last.

And though his journey had taken him, briefly, away from Pike, it led him toward another gnome—one Scanlan Shorthalt—and toward a destiny woven through seven strings of fate.

(And, of course, it lead him toward another radiant promise of good fortune—one so far from the forefront of his mind that it might take him years to discover what it was—embodied in a single human man—a vibrant constellation that was pulling across the universe to converge with the silver stars of Grog’s own soul.)

…

Shaun Geddmore, dressed to perfection in his best purple robes, stared up at a row of coloured-glass windows set into polished stone, and tried to slow his breathing. In his right hand, he held a single envelope, wax seal torn—a summons. In in his left, he clutched an embroidered purse heavy with coin—his first tax to the city of Emon.

“Okay,” he muttered, “here we go.”

And he took his first steps forward.

His feet hit gleaming marble stairs, arched and stunning, that perfectly matched their brilliant building. A masterpiece of architecture, it towered over the river below, right where the Port of Emon met the edges of the Central District.

Shaun turned the handle on the ebony door, and stepped inside, passing under the words _Emon Immigration Affairs. _Somewhere, in the rooms beyond, he would reach a turning point in his life. He would find out the results of years of hard work. He would discover whether his future truly lay before him, where he had always dreamed it would, in the capital city of Tal’Dorei.

But first, he was faced with a sparse waiting room, and a bored elven face behind a desk.

“Name?” they asked, tapping their fingers expectantly.

“Shaun Geddmore,” he said.

The receptionist didn’t bother to acknowledge his answer. They simply flicked open a book, and watched idly as the pages turned on their own, in response to Shaun’s words. Shaun’s grin grew fractionally larger—magic, woven into daily life. This was what he loved most about being back in a big city. So different from Shandal, where his power made him an oddity.

“Twenty-three years old? Marquesian Sorcerer? Applying for a permit to open a business?” the receptionist asked.

“That’s me.”

“And to change your name in our records?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” They picked up a quill. “How long have you been in Emon?”

“Two weeks, three days.”

He waited while they scrawled that on their paper.

“Alright.” They waved a hand. “We were expecting you, so it shouldn’t be long. Take a seat.”

Shaun drifted into the waiting room.

It was empty, aside from an immigrant family he already knew, applying for similar permits. Their familiar, tired faces lit with friendly smiles at the sight of him. And though they didn’t speak, consumed by their own nervous energy, his chest felt a little warmer in their company.

He wondered, for a moment, if that was strange—to be so at peace with people who were practically strangers. But he supposed his new sense of community could be credited to his current living situation. After all, there were only a few places in the city where new immigrants gathered, fresh from the ships and desperate for accommodation, unable to afford too many nights in an inn. Shaun, like many others, rented a room in the Upper Slums: the part of Emon where, hundreds of years ago, impoverished citizens built their own hub of culture and comradery: the part of Emon where the marginalised still sought shelter from the unforgiving anonymity of the metropolis.

He’d learned a lot since arriving there—things he could never have understood simply through reading books.

He knew the name of the region had been reclaimed from a sneering title given by the elite many generations back. He knew that the people of the Upper Slums had rallied together, building their stacked-up homes to be sturdy, if a little small, and finding clever ways to access food and water, or to keep their narrow streets clean, while the powerful echelons of the city turned their faces away.

His new home was certainly a far cry from the glamour of Saffron city, or the wide spaces of tiny Shandal, or the colourful sprawl of Ank’Harel. But it _was_ home now.

A door on the far wall swung open, and Shaun was brought out of his thoughts as a frazzled woman with tear-streaked cheeks burst into the waiting room. She marched to the front door, as though she couldn’t possibly leave the building fast enough.

A pang of sympathy tugged Shaun’s heart, though he couldn’t really do anything to help. He didn’t know her, and assumed he’d never see her again.

He was wrong.

A minute later, after the receptionist had led the little family out of the waiting room, the front door opened once more. And the sad stranger strode back in. Her watery eyes darted around. Then she let out a groan, fell to her knees, and started crawling across the floor.

“Excuse me,” Shaun said gently. “Could I help you with something?”

“Huh?” The woman looked up, as though she’d barely registered his presence. “It’s fine. I just…” She touched her pointed ear, fingers grazing down to the lobe. “I lost an earring.”

He joined her on the floor without a second thought. They conducted a pretty thorough search, between patterned rugs spread over dark wood, but at last, he cried out in triumph.

“Found it!”

He held up the little jewel, and his new friend burst into fresh tears as she took it from his hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is- this is my last thing of real value. If I lost it…”

“It was no trouble at all,” Shaun smiled. “You looked like you’d already had a tough day.”

She snorted.

“That’s accurate. I- I’m Sherri, by the way.”

“I’m Shaun,” he said. “Do you need to talk about it?”

Sherri regarded him for a long moment. He got the sense she wasn’t really the talking type, but that hadn’t stopped people from unloading to him before. And, sure enough…

“I’ve been trying to get away from Syngorn,” she admitted. “Or, rather, trying to get away from my elven mother…”

Shaun settled in for the story. It was a sad one. Sherri had been born in the lowest classes of elven society, to a young woman who had a fling with a passing human, and the whole family resented her for bringing them more shame. She’d grown up with only a handful of other half elves as decent company, and as soon as they began to reach adulthood, they started escaping the city. Though Sherri knew there were others like her around, she never got to meet those in different social circles. She began to feel completely alone.

“So you planned to leave as well?” Shaun asked.

“Yes. I got into a school here in Emon, in the Erudite quarter. I wanted to study part-time, and find a job in the city, where I could work to earn my fees. Except, once I arrived, I discovered they won’t assign me student housing without proof of existing employment, or an exemption from the Immigration Office.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, with a rejection in bright ink printed on the bottom.

“I have to find a job now,” she said. “The problem is, it might take a long time, and I can’t afford to pay for other accommodation while I search. So, does that mean I have to go home?” Fresh tears spilled over. “I- I just can’t return to Mother’s house. I… can’t.”

Shaun reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I’m so sorry, Sherri,” he said. Wheels in his head were spinning, as her story sparked something inside him. “Look, this is a long shot, but I might, possibly, be able to help you.”

She wasn’t quick to optimism. She looked at him sceptically.

“How?”

“I’ve applied for a permit to start a business. Most of the components for the store are set up already, and I’ve found a space to rent in Abdar’s Promenade.” He offered a warm grin. “I was hoping to hire one other person, at the beginning.”

“Really?” Sherri said. “But you don’t know anything about me.”

“We’ll have to have an interview, later, once I know if my application was even approved.”

She nodded, and shot a mistrustful look at the door to the offices.

“Good luck, then. I-I do hope you get it. You seem like a good person.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Shall we meet later? For the interview?”

“There’s a tavern at the end of this street. I’ll be there at dusk.”

“Sounds perfect,” Sherri straightened up. “I swear I’m normally far more composed. It takes a lot to shake me.”

“I look forward to getting to know the real you,” Shaun said. “Provided this all works out.”

“If not,” Sherri offered. “I guess we can share a drink to commiserate.”

“Ah, now that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

…

Grog’s blood was humming with the left-over energy of a battle outside Stilben. He walked back to the tavern alongside his current adventuring party, with the strange, identical twins, and the smiley ginger girl with antlers, and the red dragon man. And, of course, his good buddy, Scanlan.

He was happy to gather at a table and call for as much ale as he could drink.

But, somewhere in the midst of it, right when Scanlan was suggesting they go pay for some company (a new kind of fun that the gnome had introduced to Grog), the cheerful goliath felt a horrible buzz whir through his skull.

“_Ow,”_ he groaned.

And for a moment, his mind went completely blank.

A ripple of darkness. A billow of smoke. The towering, rough-handed form of his father. Images pressed against his retinas, though his true eyes were still open, staring, without seeing, at the tavern, where his worried friends attempted to work out what was wrong with him.

When he came to, Scanlan was sitting on the table, one hand resting on Grog’s mug of ale, staring back the rest of the party.

“Are you touchin’ my drink?” Grog asked.

He watched relief and astonishment play across the faces in front of him.

“Grog!” Scanlan cried, throwing his arms in the air, pure delight on his face. “What happened?”

Grog considered the question for a moment. They clearly seemed worried about something. He must have been quiet for a long time, totally out of it. Perhaps he’d been thinking too hard. His whole brain still felt foggy.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking. About stuff.”

And so, they teased him for his vagueness, with no clue that something sinister was hanging over their heads.

That night, Grog’s dreams flickered with increasingly terrible, ominous visions, leaping into clarity with the rushing sound of blood in his ears. The shapes and colours from earlier that evening returned, clarified—eerie blue light, rippling, tattered curtains—a rush of cursed flame over half melted candles. The outline of his father, staring right into his soul.

“Grog,” Stonejaw’s voice echoed, reverberating in his skull.

The old goliath’s eyes were overwhelmed by brilliant, supernatural light. His stretched out a hand, wreathed in shadow.

_“Grooog,” _he hissed.

Grog sat bolt upright on the hard floor of the room they’d rented, somewhere above the tavern. It was cold, long past midnight, and only the moon provided a faint shaft of light.

“Father?” he mumbled.

There was a sinister force squeezing his chest. An insistent sort of tug on his organs. He lurched to his feet, and stumbled from the room.

All through the night and much of the next day, Grog was walking. Even his feet, so used to travel, became blistered and sore. His stomach contracted with hunger. But he didn’t- wouldn’t- couldn’t stop. He had to follow the thing that was calling to him. He had to go and be consumed.

At the end of his journey, he met a shade in torn up robes, calling to him through powerful magic.

He was almost relieved, in that place in the back of his skull where his thoughts still seemed to be his own, when he discovered his father hadn’t really been beckoning him—when he knew that the dreams had been false.

The shade pushed him down onto a bench of stone. Its eyes were alight with a queasy purple glow, and the colour seemed to leech across the air in tendrils, claiming Grog’s vision, sharing space in Grog’s head.

For a flicker of a second, Grog found the strength to speak.

“How did you… send me… the picture of my father?”

The shade tilted its head to one side. Through rotting flesh, it spoke, in a voice that was woven with insistent agony.

“**_I found him dead, young fool. I summoned you through his bones_**.”

Grog’s gaze followed a gesture of the decrepit hand. And sure enough, a skeleton lay, lined with clinging filth, on the hard, stone floor. It was large. Undoubtedly big enough to belong to Stonejaw. And, even with the purple light weaving patterns over his sight, swallowing up his senses, he knew the shade spoke the truth.

Stonejaw was dead.

His tormentor was gone. And, somehow, despite everything, one part of Grog was grieving—for the man who had never treated him right—for the man who had allowed his own son to be cast from the herd, and never bothered searching. For the wasted chance at a family. Because what was the point of hating Stonejaw, now? There would be no final confrontation. There would be no closure.

Grog would have to bury him, later, if he ever got out of here alive.

And as the shade began to work a lengthy spell over his muscular form, slicing something deep into the cavity of his chest, Grog was unable to resist.

His mind was pulled further under—his limbs lost, and then his torso overwhelmed, and then his every vein, every fibre, stripped out from his control. His being retreated to the only unclouded corner of his skull, where he watched the shade through a murky screen, unable to do anything about it.

…

As Shaun stepped down from the ladder and stared up at his new shopfront, his eyes glistened with tears.

He’d just finished hanging a sign over the door, prepared to open the next day. And, looking up at the logo he’d first designed when he was ten, everything was starting to feel real. His chosen unicorn was carved in fresh, shiny wood, a scattering of charming stars splayed out on either side, and his new name was a swirl of blue. He murmured it under his breath over and over _Gilmore, Gilmore, Gilmore. Gilmore’s Glorious Goods._

The shop itself was tiny and cheap to rent, only the first step in a plan that spanned for years. It sat in a little market section of Abdar’s Promenade, where the buildings were narrow, and by morning, the paths would be cluttered with roadside merchants, their wares spread out on blankets and rickety tables.

Shaun swung open the door and went back inside, tucking his hammer and nails behind the counter. The shop had no space for him to sleep—no kitchen to cook in, no bathroom beyond the public outhouse on the street. But now that all his wares had been dropped off by Tamir’s contacts, he found it hard to leave again.

They looked beautiful: rows upon row of magical items, objects of interest, and pretty trinkets, lining shelves and tables, artfully arranged to fill the space. Their labels were hand-written in Shaun’s looping script. Their potential seemed to glimmer in the air.

Shaun almost wanted to start right now. To open, one hour from midnight, for exactly zero customers.

But he chuckled at himself instead, shaking his head, and began to activate protective charms over the premises. He wouldn’t risk anything being stolen, when he was this close to his dreams.

He shut up shop, two padlocks on the door, and scooped up the ladder he’d left outside. The store it belonged to was called _Farhey’s Fortunes. _The proprietor was an old tiefling man with curled horns, always draped in a gossamer scarf. They’d met mere days before, but were already building trust, already lending things.

Farhey invited him in for tea, but he had to turn down the offer. It was getting late.

“I'll drop by your new store tomorrow, then," Farhey promised. "I’ll buy something small, as a bit of good luck, for your first day.”

"Thank you," Shaun said, dipping a bow. 

"Get some sleep."

"I will."

But he found two more distractions on his way home. First, he lingered to gaze up at a particular building, which had caught his eye the first time he’d walked through this part of Emon.

It was a broad, single-story façade. The wooden walls were stained a gorgeous shade of brown, and the arched doorway seemed at once mysterious, extravagant, and inviting. Its positioning was perfect too—almost exactly in the centre of the Promenade, opening onto a wide courtyard, lined with famous buildings like the Anvilgate.

Shaun knew, somehow, burning in his heart, that this place would one day be his. He could see it in his mind, draped in bright fabric, overflowing with colour and light, the _Gilmore’s Glorious Goods _sign hanging over the door.

He had to shake himself out of the fantasy before he could move on.

And last of all, he stopped at the edge of the district, outside the gate where he would take a path back to the Upper Slums. There, someone had painted a mural on the rear wall of Emon. A stunning portrait of a jovial merchant.

An inscription below told his story; J’han Abdar was a legendary spice monger. Many years ago, he had travelled across the world and helped to fund the construction of the city. A man from Marquet—a foreigner with skin as dark as Shaun’s—had set this whole place on its feet. He’d made such a home here, in the diverse grand bazaar, that it had been named for him. Abdar’s Promenade.

And now, it was a place where others from Marquet, from all over the world, could pull their own ambitions into reality.

…

When Grog’s friends came to save him, the shade’s command over his body was unshakable. He fought them in a rush of swinging, violent, rage, purple glowing in his eyes, no emotion on his face.

And when they destroyed his captor in rush of brilliant light, his _self _returned to him too quickly.

His thoughts flooded outward from their hidden place, filling every corner of his mind again, shoving against the lingering malice of the other presence. With an agonised “_ow_,” Grog pressed his hands to his head. The searing torment of gaining so much at once was overwhelming. And his body followed in an equal flash of pain. His muscles loosened entirely, dropping him to his knees, before they came back under his command.

The first thing he felt was a set of hands against his cheeks. Small hands. Warm hands. Rough from hard work.

He opened his eyes.

“Pike?” he gasped.

She was standing in front of him, with a familiar look of concern. Her precious blue eyes were fixed upon his face. Her lovely cheeks were round and dark in the light of the underground cavern.

“PIKE!” he yelled.

In a flash, he’d scooped her into his arms, spinning her once in a hug, and holding her high so he could take her all in. She looked marginally older than the last time he’d seen her. A shiny symbol of Sarenrae still hung around her neck. But now she wore armour—a proper plate over her chest, and spaulders on her arms.

“I missed you!” he said.

And as she squeezed him in a hug, he looked past her, to find his whole adventuring party standing there.

“Oh, hi everybody,” he said. “You all know each other now?”

“They came looking for you,” Pike said. “They were worried. I was too.”

That was nice, Grog thought, that the people he cared about most had come together to save him. A tentative happiness diffused through his trembling mind. But memories of the fight flickered with it, and a bubble of guilt rose as well.

“Uh, sorry I kind of tried to kill you. Couldn’t really help it.” He pulled on a sheepish smile. He drew up the positives of the situation. “But it was a really fun fight, wasn’t it?”

Because they were his friends, and they knew a few short words could calm his worries, they indulgently agreed. And when they started planning their next move, without bitterness, Grog felt the happiness settle deeper inside him. He was glad, despite the confusion of the last few days, that this had brought them all into the same space.

Now they just had to bury his father. And then, hopefully, there would be no end to the fun they could have together.

…

Gilmore’s Glorious Goods became more successful than Shaun could have dreamed. As the years went by, he watched his plans unfold to perfection. He achieved milestones ahead of time, and when stumbling blocks came his way, his quick-thinking and charisma proved enough to overcome them.

Of course, it would be foolish to assume that things were easy.

He worked _hard _for what he accomplished. He overcame prejudice and heartbreak. He took practically no holiday time, with the exception of an occasional festival, or a weekend of socialising.

And he wore himself to the bone to protect his employees too, never expecting them to perform his level of dedication. It was his shop, after all—his dream. He couldn’t ask someone else to sacrifice their wellbeing for that. So, the back desk was stocked with spare messaging spells, and his workers given permission to summon him any time they were dealing with a difficult customer. He would rather take full nights without sleep than ask them to stay late completing things.

As for his personal life, Shaun returned to Marquet only once, after his first year in Tal’Dorei. When he walked the familiar paths of his hometown, and visited the haunts of his childhood, he found nothing but a strange ache inside his chest. Things were so different and disconnected now. He still loved Shandal, and he loved seeing his family. But he knew, after that trip, that he would be happy to never return.

He maintained a teleportation rune, though. For his parent’s sake.

Opesa and Soren came to meet him in Emon as often as they could. He liked that better—taking care of them, showing them the best spots in the city, pampering them, sending them home with gifts. But he could tell they were a little baffled by the whole situation. They, like everyone else in his hometown, didn't really understand why he wanted to move so far away. At first, they were more worried than proud. Their opinions only shifted as the years wore by, and they began to see all his hard work pay off; they began to notice how happy and fulfilled he was.

He also dated, on and off, and found he was as popular in Tal’Dorei as he’d been in Saffron City. Some things were universally appealing: his charming smile, his full-bodied laugh, his tall, broad silhouette. And his confidence. He doted on his partners, however temporary their connections, and was gracious in every break-up. He was too busy to worry much about love.

By the time Shaun turned thirty-six, he had a steady stream of extra money coming though Gilmore’s Glorious Goods. When he’d reached such a peak of income in the past, he usually reinvested it, or planned to shift to a new storefront. However, after three previous moves, Shaun was already placed in his ideal location: the building he’d fallen in love with so long ago, in the centre of Abdar’s Promenade, enhanced to be bigger on the inside with his magic.

So, he was looking for a new project. And, as if brought by the shifting tides of the universe, one landed in his lap. One that would change his life.

It was late afternoon on an atmospheric, rainy day. Unassuming. Ordinary.

Shaun paced the floor of his shop, using bursts of prestidigitation to clear up the mud his customers had tracked over the floor. He glanced idly through a window, and his eye caught on an eclectic group walking over the cobbled ground outside.

Most strikingly, one of them towered above the rain-spattered crowd. He hadn’t bothered to pull a cloak over his shoulders, for he wore very little—not at risk of getting clothing wet. Muscles rippled beneath grey, tattooed skin, rivulets of water streaming down his bare chest. He had a cheerful sort of expression on his face, despite his intimidating appearance, and he stared up at the buildings with dewy-eyed fascination.

Shaun let his gaze linger for a moment, appreciating a fine man when he saw one.

And then he glanced across the rest. Two cloaks tugged so low over faces that he couldn’t see who wore them. Two small figures who may have been gnomes, one in gleaming armour, the other talking without pause. A boy with foggy glasses, relying on one of the cloaks to guide him. A girl whose bare feet splashed through puddles, her discarded hood revealing a swoop of long, ginger hair, a crown of antlers on her head.

They turned off-course suddenly, and marched straight through Shaun’s door, beneath his trailing strings of beads.

For the first time, one of the two heavily cloaked figures swept off a hood. Beneath it, a stunning half elf with a thick, black braid glanced shrewdly around the shop. She latched, right away, onto a shelf on the far wall.

“Look,” she said, beaming with satisfaction. “My brother owes me some coin—it seems this place _does_ have what we need.”

Normally, Shaun would take that as his cue to step forward and speak. But, the thing was, he had just seen her brother’s face.

And he couldn’t form words.

The half-elf looked exactly like his sister. They must have been twins—must have been identical. And those genetics alone guaranteed he would be beautiful. Yet, somehow, he also looked completely different, his attractiveness defined by an appeal that was entirely his own.

Shaun, captivated, tried to articulate the difference in his mind.

The twins had the same curve to their cheeks, the same emotive eyes, the same shade of bronze skin, the same thick black hair. There couldn’t have been an inch separating their heights. But the brother’s face was flushed prettily pink, like he felt the cold a little deeper. He held a softer sort of awe in his expression, inhaling the perfumes of the shop, taking in the colours. His brows tugged upward in a gentler melancholy.

He was slender, too, beside his sister’s curves. Some combination of a gender-affirming magical procedure and a natural nimbleness. As though built to slip between shadows.

And, fuck, the way he _moved_. Even in the simple act of removing his cloak.

Shaun finally recovered.

“Hello, welcome, do come in!” he called.

They started, and turned toward his voice, with the exception of the half-elf girl, who must have noticed him already. But Shaun was still more focused on her brother. He saw those dark eyes sweep him, up and down, a spark of interest flickering behind them.

He had to supress a smile. There was too much delightful honesty on that face.

“My name is Shaun Gilmore, proprietor of this fine establishment. It’s a pleasure to greet so many distinguished customers at once.”

He saw their expressions lift, a response to his over-the-top friendliness. He’d learned, in his time, that it didn’t hurt to be a little cheesy, so long as your smile made the customers feel as though they were in on the joke.

“I see you have your eye on something already?” he asked, gesturing to the shelf at the back. “Healing potions?”

“Yes, indeed, darling,” answered the half elf with the braid. I’m Vex’ahlia—”

“Vex’ahlia,” Shaun greeted, dipping a quick bow.

“And I would love to talk business.”

So, he let her take up a position at his table. They spoke for a while, both immediately recognising and respecting one another as talented negotiators. Even though Shaun was a little distracted trying to keep his eyes off the beautiful half elf boy, and Vex’ahlia was smirking as though she’d noticed.

Their conversation soon moved off-track anyway. Shaun learned a lot about the group—an adventuring party, as he’d expected, and not without significant talent. An idea began to take shape in his mind.

“You know,” he said carefully. “Inspiration strikes me. I may have a proposition to make.”

Vex’ahlia smiled. Leaned across the table.

“I’m interested,” she said. “But first, I’d like to take a look around. Judging by all the exclamations, it sounds like my friends are enjoying your shop. I assume we’ll be returning customers, and I would hate to rush this.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps, while I’m browsing, you could talk to someone else.” She tilted her head meaningfully toward her brother. “If you’d like to negotiate further.”

Shaun’s eyebrows shot up.

“Perhaps.”

“His name is Vax,” she added.

And then, deciding not to be obtuse, she _winked_ at him. Shaun had to smile—these people were far too endearing.

“You’re a marvel, Vex’ahlia. Sharpest eye I’ve ever encountered.”

“For that compliment, I’ll even set it up for you.” She grinned, giving him barely a second to process what she said. Then she stood up, loudly, jangling her coin purse, so that her party all looked up. She raised her voice. “Thank you, Gilmore. Why don’t you chat with someone else for a bit?”

He took it in his stride.

“Okay,” he waved a beckoning hand. “How about you, pretty boy? Would you like to see the rest of the shop?”

Unexpectedly, Vax stayed where he was.

Instead, shrugging as though he encountered this sort of thing a lot, the bespectacled human stepped out from the corner of the room. Though his hair was bright white, he could not have been more than twenty-four. And, apparently, cocky enough to create this misunderstanding. Shaun almost laughed.

“I’m not talking to you,” he said quickly, holding up a hand.

He saw the gnome in purple and the goliath glancing at each other. The gnome mouthed a puzzled _me? _and the goliath shook his head.

Shaun couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him then. He pointed directly at Vax.

“I’m talking… to you.”

The human glanced at Vax in confusion. Vax shrugged his shoulders, looking equally baffled. But something tugged the corner of his mouth. He was pleased.

Shaun’s heart picked up speed.

He led Vax into the back room, laying on the flirting as they settled into conversation. The air around them was aflame; energy crackled through the small, cramped space. They looked through reserves of magical artefacts together, fingers brushing, words full of barely-veiled feeling.

“This one is astounding,” Vax murmured, holding an engraved belt, with the shape of a snake on its surface. Shaun had just finished explaining the enchantment it held.

“Vax’ildan,” he said sweetly. “If you like it that much, it can be your own personal gift. A bonus part of our deal.”

Vax’s eyes were filled with golden light as he thanked him.

Between all the flirting, they did manage to hash out a few details of Shaun’s new plan, and they brought the proposition to the rest of the group. Gilmore’s Glorious Goods would sponsor the adventuring party, and in return, they would spread the word about the shop wherever they went. Vex’ahlia approved the concept, after rehashing a few nuances of the deal, and the rest followed in agreement.

By the time the shop was ready to close, Shaun felt positively buoyant, and his pockets were much heavier with gold. He waved a cheerful goodbye from the doorway.

Then, he actually fell back against his desk, grinning uncontrollably, pressing a hand to his beating heart.

Because, for Shaun, meeting Vax felt like something colliding. Like something explosive and powerful. The reality of the encounter, the after-effects of the tension in the air, slammed through his body with a force that stole the breath from his lungs—the blood from his veins.

He was smitten. Completely gone, in a single afternoon.

…

Grog instinctively felt comfortable around Gilmore. He didn’t know why, because he didn’t bother to examine things like that. But he knew it was a similar ease to the one brought on by the presence of his adventuring party. By Kima. And precious few others. He was pleased to become a regular patron of that confusing, pretty, purple-covered shop.

“Now,” Gilmore said, soon after their first encounter, when they returned to arrange the new sponsorship. “If we’re designing actual product for you, as Vex’ahlia suggested, I would like some way to properly brand it. You never actually mentioned what you call yourselves?”

Despite the basic question, a sudden quiet gripped the room. Grog glanced at his friends’ faces.

Scanlan seemed to be choking on a laugh, while Pike desperately tried to school her expression. Vex and Percy had gone completely blank. Vax’s mouth opened. Then closed again. Intense, bright red was crawling over Keyleth’s face.

“We’re called the SHITs,” Grog said. “Why’re you guys being weird?”

The same strange silence followed his words.

And, at last, it was shattered by Gilmore’s startled, rumbling laugh—something that came from so deep inside him, it seemed to radiate warmth.

“That’s what I get for not asking questions,” he said. “Vax’ildan, you bastard.”

“Sorry, Gilmore.”

Gilmore simply sighed.

“Just let me know if you ever change your name.”

And while Keyleth fumbled through an explanation of the _Super High Intensity Team _acronym, Grog found himself smiling. He had been right, of course, in his instinct to like Gilmore. Clearly, the strange sorcerer had a good sense of humour—he was open, and despite his fancy exterior, unbothered by rough edges.

That’s all Grog really wanted in a friend.

The sponsorship was fully up and running soon after that meeting. So, whenever Grog went by the store, with some member of the party or other, he received an enthusiastic welcome. Sometimes, he even purchased things without supervision. And, for some reason, his gold didn’t seem to disappear as fast in Gilmore’s shop as it did in other places.

As time passed, Grog and his friends established their presence more firmly in Emon. They gained renown as heroes of the city and, before being presented to the grateful public, changed their name to the more palatable “Vox Machina.” They made a home in Greyskull Keep. Their missions began to extend into greater stakes and higher risks.

And Vax and Gilmore kept dancing around each other.

Grog watched them with mixed emotions. He had been fascinated, on that first day, by how bold they’d been. No hesitation. No holding back. Not a lick of cultural baggage weighing down the encounter.

Yet, for some reason, his stomach felt a little twisty in the time that followed.

It wasn’t like he was blind to men dating other men. Since leaving the herd, he’d discovered couples of the same gender popped up all the time, with any level of connection, no weighty commitment expected of them. He knew most members of his party were interested in an array of different people, and happy to pursue them.

But seeing Gilmore attach himself immediately to Vax was… different. It felt like Grog hadn’t had a chance to know him, and already his attention had been claimed…

Not that Grog wanted that kind of attention from Gilmore.

He told himself it must just be the novelty. No one in his little family had been involved in a serious romance before. He didn’t want them to be pulled apart.

When Vox Machina returned from their mission to the Underdark, they stopped by Abdar’s Promenade for the first time in a while. Gilmore was exactly as Grog remembered—entertaining, charismatic. With lovely, black eyelashes, and full lips. Tall enough to be rivalled only by the goliath himself, but somehow still soft in frame. His friend.

And Grog watched Gilmore and Vax meet up again.

“I would love to take a stroll with you around the city,” Vax offered. “Get a bit of lunch to bite, and, uh, hear about what’s been happening. Hear the rumours of town. We all know nobody matches your shrewdness in business—that’s no surprise—but I’m wondering what you’ve heard? What’s on the wind?”

He gave Gilmore a look, with those pretty eyes of his.

“Could you take the afternoon off?”

“For you?” Gilmore said, in a voice that left no space for doubt. “Of course.”

So, they went off, arm in arm, with plans for a bottle of wine. Grog watched the door close. He wouldn’t have minded catching up as well. Especially with drinks involved. Especially when Gilmore had just mentioned he might open a new storefront in _Westruun_.

He didn’t even like shopping anyway. He took the first available excuse (Vex getting angry with him about something involving platinum) to scamper off with Scanlan. They found their own place to get drunk—to avoid thinking for a while.

Over time, though, Grog was growing used to the idea of Vax and Gilmore.

One day, Vax mentioned how sweet his latest visit to _Gilmore's Glorious Goods_ had been. Apparently, his beloved sorcerer had teleported into the store, just to see him. Grog high fived him, and told him to “get some,” and there was no weight in his chest. His tummy wasn’t squirming.

Life was normal.

Besides, soon after that, Grog picked up a shiny new sword. And Craven Edge provided ample distraction.

…

Shaun was having a horrible day. All his customers had been demanding and obnoxious, he’d lost out on a rare magical artefact from Wildemount, and he hadn’t had an evening to enjoy himself in weeks.

The second he closed up shop, he headed straight for his favourite tavern.

It was tucked off the main streets, not too far from home. The simple little brick building housed a textile business in front, and a gorgeous, secluded cocktail lounge in the back. Usually, the ambiance was set by an enchanted harp, the room uncrowded, and the drinks delicious.

He really needed this.

By the time he arrived, there was a little sweat on his brow, and his purple robes were rumpled. But a most wonderful sight awaited him.

Vox Machina—returned from whatever mission had recently taken them out of town—were sitting around a table in casual clothes, laughing loud and bright, drinks already in their hands. And, when he walked through the door, they spotted him, expressions erupting into happiness.

“Well,” Shaun called, grabbing the attention of the entire bar, and not minding one bit. “Isn’t this the luckiest day for me!”

And then Vax was out of his seat and rushing forward. Shaun had barely a second to take in his lovely face—unchanged, unhurt by any distant battles, as far as he could tell—before the giddy fool had thrown his arms around Shaun’s middle.

He felt the tug of Vax trying to lift him, and he took a little jump to aid the process, flustered and surprised, and full of laughter, as his sweet Vax’ildan spun him in a circle, with all the strength in his thin arms.

Only once he’d been set down, plunked onto a barstool, his cheek patted with affection, did he hear a word from Vax.

“How are you? It’s so good to see you! God, you look good!”

“You as well, my friend.” Shaun smiled, flirting returning as naturally as breathing. “You as well.”

And he finally took in the rest of the group, subtly counting each individual: Vex, Percy, Keyleth, Pike, Scanlan, and Grog. All present. All wearing enormous grins. It was nice to know they’d missed him too.

His second (more amusing) realisation was that Keyleth was rather drunk already.

“What’re you drinking?” she babbled excitedly. “We’re buying! What’re you drinking.”

“Well,” Shaun said. “Obviously, whatever she’s having.”

And he chuckled as he caught a soft murmur from Scanlan, an almost fatherly note of exasperation in his voice; “she’s had _one _drink.”

Vox Machina pulled Shaun into conversation, whining like children, asking where they might find food at such a late hour. And perhaps he was coasting on the high of seeing them again, but his mind turned over a few ways he might help, and landed on the most expensive option.

Looking at their loving faces—looking at Vax’s adoring smile—how could he resist?

He pulled a small, wooden domino from his bag: a charm he’d purchased long ago, imbued with the power of the Heroes Feast spell. Admittedly, he’d bought it with Vox Machina in mind, because that sort of casting was most useful for adventurers.

He also happened to have on hand the component that would need to be absorbed. A beautiful chalice embedded with jewels, which he’d been taking home to polish.

_Oh well, _he thought, _may as well let it go._

“If you wouldn’t mind clearing some of these tables for me?” He requested. And his body tilted naturally toward Grog. To the muscles bulging on those arms. Shaun shot him a winning smile, pointing a finger. “If _you_ wouldn’t mind helping me clear some of these tables?”

The instant the words passed his lips, Grog’s shoulders straightened.

“Not a problem!” he said, puffed up with pride. “Stand up you lot!”

In his passion, he knocked over all the drinks at the next table, and the patrons, unwilling to argue with him, huffily resettled one space over.

“It’s clear,” Grog declared, shoving the table closer to their own. He let out a slightly bashful, tipsy laugh.

Shaun shot the bartender an apologetic look, thanking all the gods he was a regular here, and had developed nothing short of a stellar reputation.

And then he rolled his shoulders back, calling to the magic that spread, always, through his veins. It sparked over his fingertips, through the domino—and, as the golden chalice dissipated in the air, a glorious spread of food shimmered into existence.

Every member of Vox Machina gaped at him. Clearly, they knew the spell. But Shaun waved off their awed gratitude.

“I figured it was a special occasion,” he said.

He noticed, with a flicker of self-consciousness, that his concept of the Heroes Feast wasn’t all classic Tal’dorei fare. There were dishes from Marquet peppered through the mix.

The concern instantly evaporated, though, as Grog picked up an entire plate of spice-rubbed chicken, poured three bowls of _sambol_ over the top, in a shower of coconut, onion, and chilli, wrapped the whole thing in a flatbread, and began to shove it in his mouth. Nothing like the uninhibited candour of that man to lift all worries.

Conversation turned to serious things as they ate. Vex had complicated questions about their latest mission, and an entity called Vecna. They talked for so long that Grog and Scanlan escaped to the dart board in the corner.

At last, when things began to settle, Scanlan returned.

“Well, it’s been a fun night guys, but I’m tired of letting Grog beat me in darts…”

“You really suck.” Grog laughed. “I dunno if it’s cause you’re so tiny—”

“They- they put the dart board so high on the wall!”

“But you _also_ put darts in, like, two people’s arms!” Grog added. “I mean, are you really—”

“One of those people was giving us the stink-eye!”

They dissolved into friendly teasing, and then a very inebriated Keyleth, spurred on by so much energy in the room, began to protest to the idea of going home. Grog, ever susceptible to other people’s enthusiasm, decided to bring more shots. He ran off in a shower of giggles to place the order.

Shaun laughed, and took care of the tab.

Yet he decided not to participate in the actual theatrics. He nursed his own lovely rum-based cocktail, as the adventurers lined up their amber glasses on the table. Percy and Pike each took one shot. Percy shuddered on its way down. But Pike took the whole thing in her stride, eyes sparkling with competition, small frame still completely steady.

Grog took up her challenge. He swept down the line in time with Keyleth, both slamming down their empty glasses. Until, rather suddenly, Keyleth’s expression shifted.

“I gotta go outside,” she groaned. She flapped her hands in panic. “I need t’ go outside!”

Strangely, Vax, who always jumped at the chance to help her did, did not move.

“I need to stay here,” he said, tone serious.

The others carted her off instead. And it was such a loud, messy process that Shaun didn’t notice the changing atmosphere at the table—the weight that settled like the sky before a thunderstorm. Leisurely, he prepared to leave as well. Until—

“Could I borrow your ear for a few minutes?” Vax asked.

“Certainly.” Shaun’s smile was intimate. “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

But Vax didn’t begin right away. He shifted awkwardly in his seat. And Shaun realised that Scanlan was still beside them. Avoiding the potential of vomit.

“Um…” said Vax.

And the bard picked up the cue.

“You want some privacy?” he offered.

Vax nodded. “In private.”

Shaun knew, at last, that something significant was happening. But this was Vax. So, of course, he agreed to a one-on-one talk. He found a nice, private corner near the cleared out stage. And they sat, bodies close.

He switched on the charm again.

“Yes, Vax’ildan, darling?”

Vax’s expression was hard to read, at first. But later, when Shaun looked back on this moment, he would think of it as gut-wrenching.

“We have known each other a long time, yeah?” Vax began.

“Yeah,” said Shaun.

“And, um, I have a lot of love for you. You are an amazing man.”

Shaun smiled, his usual flash of brightness.

“Not disagreeing with you there.”

Vax laughed.

“That is part of your charm,” he said. And his brows knitted even closer in worry. “I don’t even know what I’m saying… cause, uh. I just feel I need to be honest with you. There’s no question you and I have danced around each other a bit, for the past few years. And I _have_ been curious.”

Dread was erupting over Shaun now. His scrambled for something to say.

“Well. Curiosity is, uh, the spark of arcane pursuits and knowledge.” He left a teasing pause. “Among many other things.”

Vax looked like that statement physically hurt him.

“I’ve come close many times…” he confessed. “To going further than I have. You are a _charming_ man, Gilmore. But I respect you very much. And I need to tell you… that... I can’t do the dance anymore.”

Shaun’s heart plummeted. Vax kept going.

“I am… in love… with someone I don’t think loves me.”

_Of course. _Shaun thought._ Of course. _

A sharp sting prickled behind his eyes. It took everything he had to hold back tears.

He’d been broken up with before, by people whom he’d spent more time with than Vax. He’d lost connections that, in technical terms, had been far more official than their strange flirtation. Yet this hurt so much more.

“But all the same…” Vax said. “It wouldn’t be fair to you, to think that we might dally. And I don’t want to be a liar. So, I won’t be.”

He looked Shaun right in the eye, at last. Awaiting some sort of answer.

“Well,” Shaun tried to organise his thoughts. He did what he did best: a brave face, a gentle smile to cover the turmoil inside. “I… certainly appreciate your honesty. And… well… I would be lying if I didn’t say I was a little disappointed. But at the same time, the heart wants what the heart wants.”

He knew what Vax's heart wanted—knew exactly who Vax loved—without needing to hear the name. He'd always thought there were some feelings, in his sweet man, for Keyleth. He just hadn’t been sure how deep they ran, or how permanent they might be. Not until now.

And he was fond of Keyleth, too. She was his friend. Bright, adorable Keyleth, with her open heart, pouring goodness into the world. Trying her hardest at everything she did. So how could he hold any spite?

He soldiered on.

“And, uh, well, I’ve enjoyed our flirtation.” He had to give Vax that much. The only way he could express what he felt, losing this. “Perhaps our paths aren’t meant to be quite so entwined. Such is the flow of fate, my friend.”

An exhale escaped him—a sigh to accompany him digesting heartbreak.

But there was something else in that small sound. There was understanding. And acceptance. The start of a process of grief he would have to walk alone.

He dug deep inside and pulled out whip-crack of a Gilmore smile.

“I wish you luck!” he said. And he meant it. He really did. “The path of an… uncertain heart is never an easy one. And should you ever need an ear to bend, or a shoulder to cry on, well, you know where I am. And if I’m not there, you know how to get a hold of me.”

He watched emotion flare and fall in Vax’s face—affection, incredulity, gratitude, deep sadness—things undefinable and overwhelming.

And then Vax reached out, locking a hand behind his head.

“You are a beautiful arcane bastard,” he said.

And he paused for just a moment—giving Shaun a chance to pull back—before he tugged him in and kissed him, full on the lips.

Shaun let it happen, embraced it and accepted it. His final goodbye. All he would have.

It wasn’t a pleasant kiss. It was too marked by pain and misplaced potential, and a thousand echoing cries of _what if? _But it was what they needed, then. And when Vax pulled away, Shaun left his eyes closed for an endless second.

“Thank you,” Vax said softly.

Shaun’s lashes flicked open. He managed to smile. And, because they were friends, under it all, he attempted a joke.

“Now you’re just being a tease.”

While Vax laughed, Shaun drained every last drop of alcohol in his cup. He would likely get out the wine when he went home again. He sighed.

“Goodnight to you, Vax’ildan.”

“Goodnight, Gil,” Vax murmured.

And Shaun walked out into the night. He passed the rest of Vox Machina on the way. Only Vex, in the doorway, was quiet. The others, standing oblivious on the street, smiled and waved at him as he went by. He noticed sweet Keyleth, bent double, and he was glad to find no bitterness in his heart. Only a sorrowful urge to protect her.

“Get her some water,” he advised.

And as he walked away, to the sounds of Grog offering alcoholic _fire_water in the background, he shook his head. So, that was where it had to end? A collision of stars and light, and then a slow drift into oblivion.

He couldn’t see, yet, that there were other constellations shifting closer through the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. huge big shoutout to @michealachaos on twitter for reminding me that vm were still called the shits when they met gilmore. and for being the most encouraging person alive. ily


	4. Brushes with Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is so long... it's so long. i'm sorry. too much happens in the dragon section of canon that seemed vitally important to a) who these characters are or b) the little bits of grog x gilmore we get from the episodes
> 
> and i even had to leave out a couple grogmore lines due to them happening in passing in the middle of convos that were too clumsy when written in

Grog and Scanlan walked toward the centre of Emon. They were meant to attend a gathering later—one that had the gnome in his poshest silk-embroidered shirt, and the goliath in his most formal leather pteruges. But first, they stopped at Gilmore’s Glorious Goods.

Scanlan pulled Gilmore into conversation right away. While they talked, Grog went looking for another clerk. He found a young man near the stairs—a weedy assistant made more from gangly limbs than any other body part—and began asking if they sold any lock picks.

Yet the moment the words passed his lips, he knew he’d misread things. Instead of helpfully guiding him across the room, the kid looked shocked and frightened. Perhaps a fancy place like this didn’t sell lock picks. Were such things considered disreputable? Shit. They probably were.

Grog scrambled for a lie, inventing an innocuous reason he might need to break through a secure doorway: escaping from a bathroom stall that kept getting jammed. In the back of his mind, he was very thankful he _wasn’t _speaking to Gilmore. Because he wasn’t sure he could lie to him.

He blabbered details, thinking so hard on his story that he didn’t notice the increasing panic on the face in front of him. Until the shop assistant made a rapid exit up the stairs.

So perhaps Grog hadn’t effectively lied to him either.

“Shit,” he said.

He glanced around. There were a couple of customers browsing nearby. And Scanlan and Gilmore were just closing off their conversation at the desk. So, he cleared his throat, feigning nonchalance, pretending to appraise the store.

“Lovely goods you have here,” he mumbled, hoping that would convince any listening ears that he was a legitimate man. “I’ll, um…let myself out…”

But as he turned toward the door, a familiar voice halted him.

“We’ll come with you.” It was Gilmore. Finished his business just in time to hear Grog’s scrambled attempt at normal behaviour. “Don’t worry.”

Grog spun back. He saw that Scanlan’s hand, stretched up, was resting on Gilmore’s looped elbow. And, shockingly, Gilmore was holding out the other arm, extended in a clear invitation.

Grog flicked his eyes sideways, trying to disguise his sudden embarrassment with a little put-on reluctance, as heat rose to his face.

“Alright,” he said.

And he stepped forward, looping his left arm through Gilmore’s.

Gilmore was a good height, he decided. And he was strangely warm, as though he radiated the same heat he carried in his smile—in his dappled brown eyes. Though they must have looked ridiculous while they walked, a gnome on one end and a goliath on the other, Gilmore laughed and chattered as if everything were ordinary. And Grog didn’t want to let go.

By the time they got to the Cloudtop Distract, a crowd had already gathered. Grog, Gilmore, and Scanlan had to weave through in search of Vox Machina. It turned out Gilmore knew a _lot _of people. He kept waving and shooting out friendly hellos. And Grog felt rather _visible, _clinging to his side, seen by all.

He was hyperaware of his entire body.

At last, they spotted Percy’s white head and Keyleth’s antlers near the front of the crowd. The party greeted them happily. But Gilmore wanted to catch up with other people too, and soon, he caught sight of an old tiefling man.

“Ah, yes!” he called.

He extracted his arms—why did the left-hand side of Grog’s body feel as though it had spent the last few minutes curled over the incandescent embers of a fireside?—and went off to meet his friend.

Just as the sun vanished in a wink on the horizon, a procession of guards approached. Crowds parted. The sovereign Uriel Tal’Dorei and his family filed in, their council following behind, with only Allura missing. And silence fell.

“Friends and family,” Uriel began. “Allies of this fair city of Emon…” 

He gave a long speech, mapping out, in detail, some issues he’d been considering. He explained how he saw royal duty shifting as time passed, and how he believed old structures of government no longer benefited the realm. At last, drawing all his points together, he announced his decision to abolish the monarchy.

For the most part, the people responded well. They began to cheer, though many looked bewildered, their clapping a little undecided.

Grog, a fan of chaos and change—a fan of leaders chosen by merit rather than arbitrary means—applauded the loudest of all his friends. He couldn’t wait to see what a council rule would look like.

And then, suddenly, Vex touched his shoulder, and tore his focus away. She pointed to the sky.

Grog spotted black and red streaks among the distant clouds, but he had no idea what they might be, nor why they filled Vex with such dread. Bells began to ring. Seeker Assum leapt to his feet.

“Everyone,” he called over Uriel’s shoulder, already nudging the newly retired sovereign toward the guards. “If I might ask you to all quickly make your way to your respective homes. Uh, there is a small emergency we must attend to.”

Grog heard a maddening swooping sound—like the predatory wings of a plains hawk, multiplied.

He turned in time to see a large dragon _slam _into a distant building. The creature was great and terrible, jaw hanging, animal hunger in its eyes, leather and sinew strung with brilliant white scales. It inspired the deepest instincts in anyone; it asked for fight or flight. Grog knew which option was his favourite.

The dragon’s claws gripped its chosen perch, certain that nothing could shift it. And Grog knew that place. Allura’s tower! Home to one of his dearest friends.

But he could do nothing. He watched the beast blast a stream of vivid ice through the windows.

The crowd began to scream, terror gripping them. And the dragon turned to look.

It lurched off from its roost. Under its talons, stonework cracked. Gorgeous architecture shattered like glass, brittle with frost, plunging in pieces to the streets below. The structure had turned to ruin with a single breath.

Chaos unleashed; people began to run in all directions.

Grog whirled around, and saw a second dragon slam down on the stage, where moments before, Uriel had been standing. This green creature was smaller, more hunched, with the wild eyes of something that had often been cornered. Yet still unquestionably dangerous.

“Delicious cattle.” Her predator’s voice was like ground marble. “Raishan enjoys the taste of fear.”

Grog was surprised to hear her speak. He watched her stamp over the stage. And the fury in his chest flamed higher, roaring up, his every muscle tensing. His thoughts were frenzy, his body formed of wrath and indignation.

He unsheathed Craven Edge. The wicked singing sound of its metal edge echoed through his bones.

“How do you feel about dragon?” he growled to the sword.

**_I think it sounds delicious,_** came that deep, enchanting voice, as eager as its master._ **Try a taste.** _

So Grog ran to the dragon and took a swing at her hide—flawless aim, pure strength, guaranteed to hit.

And he missed.

The dragon danced beyond his reach as though it took no effort at all. If he hadn’t been lost in a rage, he would, perhaps, have faltered. As it was, he spared only one wide-eyed second for shock, and took a second whirl.

He made contact. Just. A single slicing of his blade on verdant scale.

Raishan responded with an open jaw, and a jet of green and black smoke. Acrid fumes poured through the air, cresting over the nearest people. Grog felt his outer flesh burn, his lungs scream, but it didn’t hurt him as bad as the rest of the crowd, who were falling around him.

The dragon repositioned herself for a second exhale, and though Grog took the chance to strike, he missed again. Even in his rage, he was shaken.

Keyleth threw up a spell. She shouted for her friends to run with her as soon as they had a chance. The others aimed things toward the dragons. And then Scanlan called out: “what about Gilmore?”

Grog forced his mind to shut down that thought.

_It’s not about Gilmore right now, _he told himself. _Keep going! _

He couldn’t afford to see his dear friend lying, face down, a bundle of purple robes, magic hands unmoving. He had to save the loved ones who were still in front of him.

Scanlan, ever the dutiful bard, caught Grog’s gaze over the fray.

“You’re a magnificent handsome bastard,” he called. “Don’t die!”

Grog absorbed the words with a familiar sensation of lifting confidence. He offered a wild grin.

He spotted Pike casting mass healing, relieved to see her on her feet. Then, as Keyleth had requested, he began to run. Though the green beast slammed his retreating form with another toxic wave, he pushed through.

A third dragon landed nearby. Black this time. Its terrible, long snout gleamed under the darkening sky, reminding him of a skull in reverse colour.

_A skull!_ An idea occurred to him.

Vox Machina were sprinting at full speed. A flash of arcane light erupted by Grog’s heel. With a burst of relief, he saw Scanlan had pulled Pike through dimension door, to wait for them ahead.

But the black beast was laughing, like they were missing a joke.

And soon, the reason became clear. A fourth dragon erupted into the open space behind them: an enormous red monster, larger than anything they might have imagined. And familiar. From the Fire Plane.

“Maybe it just wants its gold back?” Scanlan suggested, half-way between humour and hysteria.

“Wants its tea set,” Percy added.

And Grog noticed, in the midst of everything, how he caught Vex’s eye, and they laughed.

He had no time for humour though. His mind was a blur of anger. His feet crashed across the ground. Over his shoulder, he could hear the red dragon hissing orders at the others, demanding that they leave, so he could claim the territory.

Keyleth reached the tree where the gnomes were waiting.

“Where are we going? What are we doing?” she asked, while the rest of Vox Machina pulled up. “Do we just go back to the keep?”

“To the keep!” Scanlan chanted. “To the keep!”

And Grog voiced his new plan.

“We need that skull,” he said.

“What?”

“The skull grants a wish.”

He expected a little more excitement. He thought at least one person might look hopeful at the idea. Instead, Keyleth’s expression was full of pity.

“Grog….” she started.

“Just get to the keep!” Vex and Scanlan interrupted at the exact same moment. “We can’t talk about it now!”

Keyleth slammed her hands against the tree trunk. She pushed open a druidic portal. Through it, Grog could see the familiar shapes of their home. They began to race through.

Vex screamed _“Gilmore!” _one more time.

And then the tree swallowed them up.

…

Shaun had returned to the Cloudtop District four times already. But he went again.

He had to scramble out of a hidden exit from the cellar of his ruined shop. The small space was all that remained, and now he had people hiding there, including children. He couldn’t afford to think lightly of their right to sanctuary. Already, the tenuous layer of safety he provided felt so delicate that he could barely breathe.

Or perhaps that was because of the ash in the air.

It was impossible to inhale without tasting it. The red dragon had gouged out a nest in the middle of Emon, transforming the landscape into its own personal pit of hell.

But still, Shaun kept moving.

Too often, he found bodies, many of whom he knew. His mind was devoured by thoughts of the people he hadn’t saved; too many souls, torn asunder by those terrible beasts.

He yelled out for Vox Machina until his voice was hoarse. At first, he called for Vax’ildan, and then for the others. Vex and Keyleth. Grog. Scanlan, Pike, and Percy. His desperation echoed back at him from unfeeling mounds of stone. The broken streets were near impossible to navigate, even for a man who’d lived there most of his life.

Eventually, only one option seemed likely: his friends must have gone to fight the dragon.

So, Shaun squared his shoulders, and walked deeper into the city. With no weapon, other than the threads of arcane power at his core, he went to find them. He went to join their war.

…

Grog’s next hours were hazy, remembered only as a series of rapid events. The white dragon came for the keep, then left it in tatters and flew away. Pike called a planar ally to rebuild, and, wanting to do _something_ helpful, the party welcomed refugees into their home. Down in the basement, Grog tried to seek the power of the sinister, talking skull—the one who had offered him a wish. But despite all the cajoling, threatening, and attempts at outright fighting, his plans were thwarted.

_Fucking Percy._

Finally, Allura’s arrival broke through their restlessness. She brought knowledge of the red dragon’s ancient nature, and the legacy of his name, Thordak. Vox Machina decided to spread across the lands in search of allies.

Keyleth began, most importantly of all, by scrying for Gilmore. Though her tone seemed hesitant, she thought he was alive. And Grog felt a grateful loosening in his chest.

“Let’s go find that magic fucker!” he said.

They stumbled through the smouldering city to the wrecked parts of Abdar’s Promenade. But when they arrived at Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, they were faced with ruins. Grog couldn’t believe it. He’d been inside the store so recently he could almost smell the perfume and candles.

And, now, there were looters picking through the rubble.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Vax screamed. “Get out!”

“Hey, get your own shit, alright?” shouted the apparent leader of the group of thieves.

“Move on!” Vax fumed. “Now. Now! _Now_!”

The looters exchanged looks.

“Look, we’re all just trying to stay alive here, alright?”

But Percy stepped up behind Vax, and drew out his gun.

“You heard the man,” he said, with that dangerous note to his voice. The one that lurked beneath his young, noble veneer.

Grog didn’t bother with words. He simply unsheathed his sword. And Keyleth lit her hands aflame beside him.

“Don’t test us,” Vex warned.

The looters argued back, admitting they were collecting tribute for the dragon, until Grog wanted to scream. He wanted to cut out the talking and get straight to the fight.

“Listen, there’s so much more available to you.” Vex said. “Buildings, up that way. It’s not worth your time right here.”

“Honey, we’ve already picked plenty clean from this pile.” Grog bristled, knowing Vex wouldn’t like that pet name directed her way. And knowing the men had already been here. In Gilmore’s space. The looters’ leader was smug, though. “This is our third time back.”

And off rolled a threat from Grog’s tongue, as natural as anything.

“It’ll be your last time back if you’re not careful.”

Because that felt like a simple fact—action, then consequence. Steal from Gilmore, face the wrath of Vox Machina. Face the ferocity of Grog Strongjaw.

“Is it worth your death?” Vex added. “Bringing this to him, is it worth your death? Because you _will_ die here.”

“You know what?” the leader sneered. “I think I stand a better chance against the lot of you than we would with _that_ thing.”

Vex sighed, exasperated now. Like this wasn’t worth her time.

“Step on and go find loot somewhere else,” she said. “At least then you can present it to him and not die here. Don’t be _stupid_.”

Grog shifted, restless.

“Vex,” he whined. “Please let me off the chain.”

“You know, it may be stupid,” the looter continued. “But there’re other stupid things in this town. Like walking in the middle of an ambush, dear.”

And a dagger rushed past, missing Vex by a hands-width, thanks to her neat little dodge.

Grog smiled. He needed this. A fight he could actually win.

…

Shaun was trudging through a black, blurry world, no longer in physical movement, but across a dreamscape.

Thoughts chased themselves through his unconscious mind, a total muddle, looping obsessively back to the same problem; he needed to save the sovereign’s children; he needed to guide them to safety, along with their mother. But wait. He’d already finished that task. He was going back again, into the chaos, looking for Vox Machina.

That idea was mixed in with flashes of blood and pain, bright and scarlet. Had he already finished recusing them? Or had he failed? Was he dying, somewhere, right now?

A red dragon’s face, detached from its body, mouth gaping like a marionette, loomed out of the darkness. Trying to wake up felt like struggling for air in a bottomless well. Shaun couldn’t put his timeline back to order. Couldn’t think beyond the vaguest sense of urgency.

Then he felt fingers grasping his chin. They were cold. Or he was warm. Too warm.

He couldn’t force his body to respond to the touch.

_Pike, Pike, Keyleth or- Pike come over here…_

He heard a faint, hurried voice. But he thought it might only be echoing through his memories, because the timbre and tone belonged to Vax. And it was followed by more members of Vox Machina. The people he’d failed to find.

A second sensation brushed his chest. Something that reminded him of the arcane, but was somehow more gentle, more smooth and assured and ancient. It flooded his body.

Agony vanished—siphoned away.

A tremble rippled through him, as the divine magic hurled him upward, toward the surface, into the waking world.

Shaun gasped, curled in on himself. He was cradled in a pair of arms, half pulled onto a lap. The figure supporting him was small and solid, and familiar in shape. Vax’ildan.

“Is he all right?” asked another voice. Sherri was there too. “Is he all right?”

“I think so,” said Vax.

They talked over him, responding to other speakers in the room. Shaun left his eyes closed. He absorbed the sensations of being held and let his memories catch up to him, reality settling in. He remembered finding the dragon now. And fighting it_. _

Minutes passed in silence.

Vax’s hands smoothed back the hair from Shaun’s sweaty brow. For a moment, it would have been easy to forget their last, painful conversation. For a moment, he could have lain there forever.

“Hey,” Vax whispered softly. “Hey…”

Shaun began to cough. He dragged his eyes open and attempted to focus on the shapes surrounding him.

There was Vax, overhead, such concern pinching that lovely face, such adoration in his intent stare. Everything about him was familiar. Comforting. Eternal. Shaun was a planet in orbit again. His lips drew into a smile of their own accord.

“Ah, it’s always what I assumed I’d see, in my last moments.”

And he tried a gentle chuckle—tried to ignore the shard of sorrow in Vax’s expression.

“Bad day, huh?” Vax asked.

“Uh, strangely enough, I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse.”

“No offence, darling,” Vex’s voice joined in. It was all conjured casualness, as though somehow, she sensed that was what Shaun needed. “But you look like shit.”

Shaun choked out another laugh. “We can’t have that, can we?”

He lifted a hand, trying to draw his natural arcane power, and felt the tingle of prestidigitation wither as soon as it formed. The first cantrip he’d ever cast, out of his reach. That jarred him to his core.

“Give it time,” said Vax.

“You need a rest,” his sister added.

“Urgh,” Shaun grumbled. “So… either we’re all dead, or we’re all alive. I’d like an answer.”

“Alive,” said Vex.

Relief swept over him.

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” He let out another laugh. It still felt flat and hopeless, grasping at the edges of real joy. “I was so worried about you all. I went back for you.”

“What?” gasped Keyleth. “We were so worried about _you._”

“I’m glad you came here,” said Percy. The highest praise from him, that Shaun had made a good, sensible decision. But Shaun felt guilty.

“I’m sorry, when- when they attacked, my instinct was to grab the children. Um, I got who I could, but… Uriel pushed me away. He was trying to get others out of the fray.”

“Did you see him fall?” Vex asked.

It all rushed back—familiar faces printed on his eyelids—their own eyes staring, unseeing, at the night sky, where the beasts had vanished unscathed.

“I didn’t see him fall. But I went back, and I found him fallen.”

“His- his body?” asked Scanlan.

Shaun wanted to scrub the image from his brain, mottled as it was by poison and ash.

“What was left of him,” he said.

And he quickly turned toward the positives, explaining what progress he’d made with the other survivors. Vox Machina brought good news as well; their keep was now a safe haven for refugees. They talked until Shaun’s throat was rent through with harsh coughing. He felt blood in his mouth, and quickly swallowed it.

“Can you do anything?” Vax asked the room, like he never wanted to see Shaun in pain.

“I mean, I can- I can cast cure wounds on him to try to help out. Will it help?” Vex directed the query at Shaun. “I mean, you’d know more than I would.”

“Whatever your fine angel of Sarenrae did, I think will hold me fine for now,” he said, tossing a half-hearted wink toward the cleric, who’d probably just saved his life. “Thank you. Thank you dearly.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured.

“You certainly earned your name today,” said Vax.

But Shaun couldn’t agree. How could he be called glorious, when he’d been so lost in the mayhem? When he’d failed in so many ways?

“I could have saved more,” he said, despair overwhelming. “I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t- I looked…”

“I’m so sorry,” said Keyleth.

“No, no, I- I- you—”

“You were hard to find,” said Percy.

“I figured you would be taking care of yourselves,” Shaun explained. “I went to the dragon just in case you had decided to be your usual foolish selves and run into hell itself.”

Vex laughed knowingly. “Perhaps sent a spy and tried to trick him. That would have been stupid, huh?”

“Yes. Very,” said Scanlan, tone implying they’d entertained that exact thought.

Shaun wanted to scold them, but he didn’t have the energy.

“Gilmore, we called for you,” Vex continued. “I’m sorry we didn’t wait.”

“No! I’m glad you didn’t. You may not be here.”

“Did you see any others from the council? Anyone else?”

“Well, uh,” Shaun leaned forward, pushing out of Vax’s lap, so he could look at them all. “There were quite a few dead, unfortunately. Um, Brom Goldhand didn’t make it. Most of the guards are gone. Half, if not more, of the Cloudtop District, killed by the poisonous fume that took the entire area so suddenly.”

He remembered that. Remembered a glance over his shoulder—a glimpse of dear Grog, right at the dragon’s side, the only one standing in a wave of sickly green.

His friends asked him more, about the dragon attack, about the survivors he’d discovered, and the dead he could confirm. He mused over the state of the city, where the living were now kneeling at the feet of the great monster. Where there was so little hope.

He even admitted how close he’d come to Thordak. Close enough to see the strange deformity in the dragon’s chest, which could either be a source of extra power or, perhaps, a point of weakness.

“I’ve never duelled a dragon before,” he chuckled, trying to dissipate the tension, to shift the worry from their faces. “I’ve duelled a dragon now.”

“And fared quite well,” Vex added, though she was being far too kind. Shaun had to laugh again.

“Oh, I did not,” he promised. “I survived longer than I hoped, and got out when I could.”

They talked some more, but Shaun’s mouth tasted of rust still. He felt like his saliva must be stained with blood, his throat ripped raw. He had to say something. But, gods, he didn’t want to make a fuss.

“Does anyone have any water?” he asked. “I’m a bit parched.”

For the first time, Grog spoke up.

“We got better than that!” he said, jumping on a chance to be useful. “We’ve got a potion.” He eyed Shaun rather seriously. “And, honestly, if we’re going to be moving about on the streets, I’d like you to not fall open like a can of baked beams, if you don’t mind.”

Shaun knew Grog well enough to read into that—to know it was his brusque expression of concern. He laughed more honestly than he had since his eyes opened.

“I- I’m not going to lie, I’m quite touched by your concern, Grog. It’s flattering.”

He tried to stand, ready to accept whatever he was offered. Embarrassingly, he needed Vax and Sherri to help him upright.

“Gilmore, before we go,” Scanlan said. “One more _crazy _question. You’re not a dragon, are you?”

Shaun’s mirth—as though a floodgate had been broken by Grog—poured out of him again.

“Oh, I wish I was,” he said. “That would have made this whole endeavour a little- a little _easier_ on my part.”

“Alright,” Scanlan sighed.

So Shaun leaned a little closer, bringing up a smirk that spoke of sharing secrets.

“But, if you find a way for me to become a dragon,” he added. “That would be _sexy.”_

The room erupted into laughter, and he smiled. He’d created a light moment. He felt better already.

…

Vox Machina divided in half after a long argument about what to do next. Only Grog had been certain from the beginning; he would accompany Gilmore and the children, who needed his protection most.

Keyleth, Percy, Salda, and Sherri walked with them as well. They took turns supporting Gilmore, who needed a shoulder to lean on, so Grog focused on the kids. He was doing a pretty good job, too, if he did say so himself. He corralled them safely through rough areas, and made them laugh, and drew their attention from the bodies they passed, crumpled on the ground. He preened when Gilmore and Salda smiled at him, clearly impressed with his babysitting.

But then, as they pushed down an alleyway to avoid a charred main street lined with corpses, they encountered a handful of figures, holding blades.

“Hey,” one of them said. “Drop your stuff! Give us what you’ve got!”

Keyleth punched him directly in the jaw.

As he stumbled back, shocked, Sherri whipped out a wand, and blasted stone off the wall with a lightning bolt. Grog was too busy grinning proudly at them to notice the movement in the corner of his eye, as Gilmore pulled off of Percy.

But then Gilmore was impossible to miss.

He stood on his feet, all by himself, collecting every bit of strength still lingering inside him. And when he raised both hands, arcane bolts burst to life, flickering and dancing around his form, a threatening display of power.

“Do you gentlemen seriously wish to start this ruckus?” he asked.

Grog’s jaw was hanging open. A part of him was prepared to step forward and catch the sorcerer if needed. The other part was simply… enthralled.

The tiny group of thieves looked terrified.

“No…” they said.

They slowly backed away, defensive, and began to sprint the second they turned the corner.

“Yeah you better run!” Keyleth yelled.

Grog found himself grinning, amused at her bravado, still stunned in the aftereffects of Gilmore’s sudden revival.

“Way to tell ‘em Kiki,” he said.

“Thank you.” She shook out the knuckles of the hand that threw the first punch. “I’m trying to get better at it.”

And then Gilmore faltered, and began to tip forward. Percy darted to grab him, but Grog beat him to it.

“That’s- that’s the last of me,” Gilmore mumbled. He let his full weight slump back, aware of who was carrying him, Grog’s strong arms looped around his middle. “That’s all I’ve got. Take me home. Please.”

Grog adjusted their weight, so their bodies weren’t quite so pressed together, so that Gilmore could simply lean on him and walk, and Keyleth reassuringly muttered: “yeah, almost home. Almost home.”

Gilmore reached up and sweetly pinched Grog’s cheek.

Grog, never having seen him so uninhibited without alcohol, totally unprepared for such a sudden unfiltered display of affection, said: “oh, shit.”

And they continued on.

Gilmore’s weight didn’t feel heavy to Grog in the traditional sense. But it weighed on him somehow, brought by responsibility more than physical burden. He needed to get this marvellous man, so fragile and delicate in his arms, to safety. He was pretty sure it would be a miracle if Gilmore’s legs held out all the way to the keep, considering how he’d been breathing after his show of magic.

Grog wondered if he might need to carry him.

The group made their way past make-shift graves by the south gate, and found Trinket waiting just out of town. As they began to head toward the keep, Keyleth suggested the secret passage, so they could go on without watching their backs. And the very mention of the place got the kids excited.

“We’ll need to be quick anyway,” Sherri agreed.

“Yes, and the children can always climb on Trinket as we go,” Percy said. “If speed is of the essence.”

“I’m something of an encumberment today,” Gilmore mourned. “I should not have tried to be the hero earlier. Walking is… walking is difficult. Even with such a great helper.”

He patted Grog’s arm. Percy looked at him, considering.

“Well, the kids’ll ride the bear, and you can ride Grog.”

Gilmore laughed at the wording. Grog’s entire face flamed with heat. Still, he offered both arms, and scooped his friend up, bridal style.

They headed on to Greyskull. For the whole journey, Grog could not stop thinking about Gilmore—a given, when the sorcerer’s face was so close to his own. He monitored his breathing, his long-lashed eyes when they drooped closed, and opened again. There had always been a sense of vitality in this man, and seeing him so weakened was jarring. Worrying.

That’s probably why Grog’s heart was beating so fast.

…

Shaun lay in bed for a long time, Pike faithfully tending him, slowly healing the wound in his torso. It would take a while, as he’d expected. Partly because he refused to keep too much of her magic for himself, and partly because the dragon was a creature of arcane means, and the lingering effects of its attack couldn’t be easily cured.

He was set up in Percy’s bedroom, propped on pillows, surrounded by a pleasant blue colour-scheme, and the smell of wood shavings that must have followed the young man from his workshop.

He had a lot of visitors there: Salda, the children, and all of Vox Machina. According to Pike, her friends had checked in while he was asleep. He was sad to have missed them, but they returned individually later on.

Percy was first, just making sure his room was comfortable enough. He bustled around, hoping to feel helpful, and only left after being reassured multiple times.

Vax’ildan arrived when Shaun was on the edge of consciousness and threw a blanket over him. Shaun could tell he’d brought it from his own bedroom, just from the way it smelled: like night-time air from an open window, and orange blossom soap. He could also sense that Vax was standing there, trying to decide if he should stay.

Shaun pretended to be sleeping, until at last, the rogue slipped silently from the room again.

His next visitor was Vex, appearing in the middle of the night, when Shaun had woken in pain for the third time, and she saw the flickering light of his candle in the hall. She sat and talked with him, checking how he was feeling, before going back to bed herself.

At dawn, Grog woke Shaun like an overly enthusiastic rooster. He burst through the door, carrying a tray of hearty, meat-dominant breakfast. He placed it haphazardly on the bed and sank into Pike’s usual chair. But though he intended to share the food, he ended up eating a lot. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth stuffed with the last sausage. “Did you get much? Wanted you to get your strength up.”

“It’s okay, Grog. I’ve had all I can manage.” Shaun gave him a reassuring smile. Even sitting up to eat was quite exhausting. “I need you to keep your strength up too. We'd be lost without it.”

So Grog, looking rather flattered, continued scarfing down the meal.

Keyleth brought flowers soon after—a druidcrafted bundle of Shaun’s favourites. Only she would remember a detail like that. And now the room was graced with a spray of delicate white and a splash of lush purple.

Last of all, Scanlan dropped by on his way out of the Keep, to make sure Shaun knew he was thinking of him. The shimmery kindness of his words offered comfort only a skilled bard could provide.

And eventually, Vox Machina came up with a plan: an evacuation to Whitestone.

Shaun had never been there before. Though he’d travelled through a lot of Tal’Dorei in his time, the tiny mountain town had been all but ignored by the rest of the world, until his friends liberated the place, and Percy reclaimed his title.

Now, the hidden city seemed to be the only option left.

So Shaun gathered by the Temple of Sarenrae with the others, and let Sherri carry him through the last portal out of Emon.

They stepped into crisp, chill air, and gasped. Several pretty rows of houses stood before them, and at their backs (the source of the druidic portal) an enormous tree dwarfed the space, its branches hung with gold and red, though winter was well underway. It was a beautiful place.

Other refugees waited to greet them.

Shaun was quickly pulled into conversation. He barely noticed Vox Machina stomping off to sort out other business.

Instead, he was learning names, hearing stories. And he couldn’t help remembering Saffron City. He knew too well what it was like to flee from carnage, cast out from a home. Despite the chill in the air, his chest began to swell with warmth and certainty. These were his people. Here, he could recover, and more importantly, he could _help._

As he milled around with Sherri, getting to know the place, he saw Vox Machina approaching again, discussing the merits of Whitestone and Vasselheim.

“Where do you want to stay, Gilmore?” Vex asked him.

“To be perfectly honest,” he said. “I’m not quite feeling 100%, and let’s just say I’m not a huge fan of the zealot type.”

He couldn’t leave Whitestone now that he’d seen it—flooded with forlorn, displaced souls. He _certainly_ couldn’t head off to the hub of religious snobbery, where he would be surrounded by people more similar to the cult that incited the Saffron riots than to the refugees who ran away from it.

“Understandable,” she said.

“Vasselheim doesn’t really jangle my dingles.”

He saw Grog’s massive grin—always a fan of such wording. And Vex was smirking too.

“You’ve got a whole bookstore devoted to you here,” she said, referring to a place she’d told him about a while ago, which they had named after him.

“This is true,” he agreed.

“I would appreciate your help in restarting the economy of Whitestone, to be fair,” said Percy.

A lot of pressure. A welcome challenge.

“Well, guess it’s not too late to open a new branch of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, since my other—possibly two others—no longer exist.” He sighed. He still had no idea what had happened to his place in Westruun. “I was _so_ close to opening…”

But that made them look sad, so he quickly continued.

“I started from nothing! I can do it again!” And when his cheerful words were undercut by a cough, he realised he had to get out of the cold. So, he said his goodbyes. “Good luck, you all.”

“You as well,” said Percy.

…

Vox Machina were hunting for vestiges when they came across the Herd of Storms again. The whole group of goliaths were making a home in Westruun, forgoing all the parts of Grog’s old culture that he still loved (the nomadic life, the freedom) in favour of the things he hated (violence and viciousness and the service of a great tyrant).

But before the party went to fight them, they sought out a Sphinx, looking for information about the vestiges. And Grog gained two new horrible memories. Ones that would haunt him forever.

First, as he climbed out of one of the magic doorways in the temple where the Sphinx lived, he threw his sword up to gain purchase. And when he emerged, he found where the blade had gone. Imbedded in Pike’s flesh.

He would thank Sarenrae a thousand times that she hadn’t died.

Second, while resting in the snow outside the temple, his vision blacked out entirely, swallowed by darkness. And he woke to find his hands wrapped around Scanlan’s throat. His thumbs crushing the windpipe.

Grog dropped him immediately, bewildered, reeling from the fact that he’d almost killed both his closest friends today—his sweet, favourite gnomes. The rest of Vox Machina were furious and terrified. They explained that he’d been passed out cold for a while, and that he’d almost died.

And he was shocked.

But even as they explained—telling him his treasured sword had pulled him under—he wanted to defend himself. Defend the blade. He still _needed _it.

At last, they hit on the crux of the issue. He was afraid to let go of Craven Edge. Afraid to lose the strength and power it gave him. Afraid of what he would be without it.

They all looked a little softer.

“The sword didn’t make you _Grog_,” said Keyleth gently.

“All right, hold on,” Grog continued desperately. He turned to the person who knew him best. “Pike, look. If we’re going back to Kevdak… You know I’m not scared of death, right? I would die by a dragon, I would die by a beholder, and I wouldn’t care, as long as it was a beautiful death. But I don’t want to die from Kevdak. Not him.”

Pike looked like that pulled at her very heart.

“We’ll find you a better weapon,” she promised. “I don’t want you to die from something that’s not worth it.”

And Grog couldn’t argue. Not when he’d always trusted her most.

“All right. Fine. Do what you want with it. I don’t need it.”

But he did. He was sure he did. And he was so scared to watch them talking over the sword, discussing its fate. He had to rely on Pike’s steady gaze to push him past the horrible, traitorous urge to snatch back his property with all the strength in his body.

Thankfully, they decided Pike would be the one to deal with Craven Edge, with a simple Greater Restoration spell.

She turned toward Grog first, clutching her holy symbol. There was a small smile on her lips, borne of relief that he was still with them. But she also held something shaky in her fingertips, shocked by what just happened. She touched his hand, and dealt out a decent chunk of healing, so they were in the best possible position before they began.

And then, after a little more talking, Pike walked right up to the sword.

Shadows spilled out when she neared it. Scanlan’s voice rose over the snowy mountainside, inspiring her as she stepped into danger. The light of Sarenrae came to life in her hand. It emanated from her very touch, and the shadow shrunk back, allowing her to place her fingers over the blade.

At that exact moment, some impact slammed Grog in the gut—in the very spot where the sword always seemed to tug. He felt himself thrown backward in the snow, as though he weighed nothing, and immediately, he shot up again, breathing heavily, adrenaline on fire in his heart.

“Oopsie,” Pike mumbled, light and self-satisfied.

And Grog knew they’d been right all along. Craven Edge had eaten his soul.

He could have kicked himself; it was so obvious. He’d let his whole world be taken up by this sword, inviting it into every aspect of his life, to all his thoughts, to all his fears. He’d let it weave itself, inarguably, into his future. He’d let it warp his mind. And the whole time, the fucking blade was only using him.

He was never going to touch it again.

Keyleth and Vex made sure Pike let go of Craven Edge, and they all stared at it for a moment, sitting motionless in the snow.

“Yo, guys, update,” Grog said. “That sword is totally evil.”

Pike looked at him with such exasperation he couldn’t help shrinking a little.

“Grog, what did you think we were telling you?”

And then Keyleth reached out, as planned, and cast Plane Shift. With a faint ripple, a slit opened through the air, across Planes—with rippling stars and shapes and colour—and the druid tossed the blade in. It was gone. Forever.

“And there was a dagger that came with it,” Grog said.

Vex, Keyleth, and Percy turned on him all at once, and yelled: “What?!”

Grog laughed, already starting to feel better.

“I’m fucking with you.”

“_Grog_,” Pike said. And her voice was full of so much affection and relief, and so little real annoyance.

In the wake of that, surrounded by honest love, and real strength, and family, Grog went on to Westrunn and took down Kevdak.

And he had so much compassion left over that he chose to save his cousin, Zanror, and let the herd live on. He could only hope that they’d found a healthier sort of leader, who would reform them into something better. Even if he knew he would never live among them again. 

…

Shaun was awake late into the night, researching the economic history of Whitestone. His days had been packed with that kind of thing lately, helping refugees by day, squeezing in reading time where he could, unable to fall asleep with the pressure of dragons in the back of his mind.

So, by lucky circumstance, he heard the click and roll of the window opening upstairs, in his empty bedroom.

He was on his feet in an instant. He checked his person—fully dressed, no shoes, unarmed other than a fancy quill made from peacock feathers—and he turned toward the tiny, narrow stairs that separated the two storeys of his house.

A few possibilities flickered through his mind, as he wondered who it might be. Most of the ideas seemed ridiculous. The only one that held any weight was, possibly, Vax. But when a couple of floorboards creaked, he knew it couldn’t be his favourite rogue, who walked on such soundless feet.

He angled himself even more defensively.

And a cautious, shadowed figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Broad and tall, hooded, holding himself in a tight coil, ready for an attack. The moment he spotted Shaun, he launched down the staircase, feet angled for a kick.

Though Shaun had expected to be ready, he still had no chance to respond. This person was trained—an experienced fighter.

Shaun raised his arms to protect his face, and took the impact full-on, smashing back against the doorframe, where the jarring blow made his head spin.

But then he shoved himself back to his feet, and he slashed out with a spell of flame. It was a sorcerer’s instinct, often made fun of, but it was a good fall-back most of the time. Still, the intruder didn’t seem to take the burn the way most people would. With his experienced arcane eye, Shaun realised the cloak he wore was fireproof.

This was certainly a calculated attempt.

An attempt at his life?

The question was answered immediately when a dagger flew directly for his eye. He managed to avoid it, and hurled out another spell, more carefully considered, that sent the man smashing back against the stairs.

Shaun was not a violent man. But he would, without hesitation, defend himself when he had to.

“Fuck,” the assassin said, wiping blood off his nose. “This was supposed to be easy.”

“You may have been misinformed,” Shaun smirked. “I’ve always been gifted.”

He flicked his wrist up, but this time, the other man dodged. He dove forward, and smashed Shaun’s legs out from under him. They hit the bookshelf in the study room, and it actually cracked, tomes raining down from their careful places.

They turned over twice, grappling for control. And Shaun ended up on the bottom.

“Not my favourite position,” he growled.

The assassin slashed a knife toward him, and it sliced across his temple. But he tore an arm free, and ripped the blade way, sending it sailing across the room. He caught a glimpse of shock on his attacker’s face, and then kicked, with all his strength.

The cloak streamed out like tail feathers as the other man flew through the next doorway, into the sitting room, breaking a table in his fall.

A lamp tipped over, glass front smashing, candle-flame catching on the curtains. But Shaun had no time to deal with it yet.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“You’re not meant to fight this hard!” The assassin hissed instead. “We were told- I thought- you’re a fucking poncey merchant with nothing to live for!”

Shaun’s eyes narrowed.

“What does that mean?”

He his own fury rising. He was a little outside of himself right now, all danger and power, dishevelled and bleeding, but so, so _alive._

“You’re a—” the man choked on his own blood, spat it on the floor. “You’re just gimmicks and tricks. A common magician. Without your shop, without anyone to love you... completely _alone.”_

Shaun raised a hand, arcane power roaring to life across his palm, whipping his hair around his face. He lifted the assassin in the air with an unseen force, using half his focus to make sure such intensity didn’t cause his runes to pop out. He stepped closer, across the study, into the sitting room.

“What did you say?” he asked. But the man only whimpered, terror in his eyes now. “That’s what I thought.”

And he closed his fist. The assassin crumpled. His body twisted, inward, and like water from a wrung-out towel, his blood poured over the floor. Shaun released his fingers. He let him fall. In the same instant, he quenched the fire in the curtains with a simple cantrip.

And in a flash of light, someone else appeared in the middle of the room.

He let out a yell of shock. Whirled around.

“Ah, it’s okay! It’s okay!” Shouted the new figure, holding up her hands in defence. He saw ginger hair, gangly limbs. “It’s me, Keyleth! Sorry!”

Shaun deflated.

“It’s not the night to be doing that to me!” he said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I know! I know!

He squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was still pounding in his ears.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

“Gilmore!” Keyleth said, not giving him a moment to pause. “Rakshasa. In town. Pretending to be you. Trying to kill Vax.”

His eyes flew open. His mouth dropped.

“Right now?”

“Yes. Also,” she gestured at the figure in the corner of the room, “a bunch of fucking assassins.”

Shaun grasped Keyleth’s arm and teleported them directly toward the essence of Vax’ildan.

With a rush of air, a flash of energy, they appeared in the middle of a long tunnel, unannounced, and found all of Vox Machina gaping at them in shock.

“I found Gilmore,” Keyleth panted. “I found him.”

But Vex pulled out her weapons. Grog went on alert.

“We killing this one?” he asked.

That hurt. Even though Shaun knew exactly why they would be suspicious.

But before he could defend himself, he noticed Vax. Vax, who was completely naked. And beautiful, in this low light, his skin so soft, his eyes so dark. Distraction personified.

“No- he’s real Gilmore!” Keyleth said quickly. “Real Gilmore!”

“Hi,” Shaun managed to say. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.” And then he couldn’t help a teasing comment, a smile directed to the naked half-elf. “I wasn’t expecting it to be my _birthday_ as well.”

Vax looked flustered, turning on the spot, as though that would help anything.

“Vax,” Scanlan said. “Ask him a question that only Gilmore would know the answer to.”

“Oh…” Vax looked at Shaun. “What’d I tell you in that tavern, the other night? Uh, Couple of months ago, I guess. What’d I tell you?”

_Seriously? _

Shaun did not want to think about that. He was already breathing heavily, rumpled from the fight, smudged with blood, but he’d at least been happy to see them. Now, he dimmed.

_In front of everyone?_

“Um,” he said. “That you- that you had interests elsewhere.”

Vax seemed to realise, after the fact, that his question hadn’t been terribly sensitive. Shaun always seemed to fall for men that spoke before they thought.

“Yeah, that’s Gilmore,” Vax confirmed, more carefully now. “It’s been a shit night. Who wants to get a drink?”

Shaun waved his fingers tiredly. “I, for one, could really go for some heavy alcohol.”

But Keyleth, a more responsible leader than she ever gave herself credit for, wasn’t ready to relax.

“Gilmore, where’s Allura?”

“I don’t know. I—"

“Gilmore, if they were after us, and they were after you, they were probably also after Allura. We need to make sure everyone on the council is okay.”

So, they were pulled back into serious things for a while longer.

It turned out their friends were all alive, if (in the case of Kima and Kash) rather bloodied from their own fights. Once a few of them got changed, or put clothes back on their naked bodies, they gathered in Whitestone castle to catch up on news. But Shaun was still desperate for a drink.

“Alright,” he said, once they’d talked a while. “Drinks, please?”

“_Yeah_!” Grog cheered instantly. They were always on the same page when it came to this.

But Vax wanted Shaun to check out his new armour first. And, though another delay grated on Shaun’s nerves, he still wouldn’t deny him anything.

He looked it over (Vax, damn him, looked _good _in black and subtle raven imagery) and confirmed it was, indeed, a powerful vestige, with several brilliant attributes. He even noticed one, recently awakened, which Vax may not have found yet.

_Oh,_ Shaun thought, _this will be fun_.

And he did feel a little annoyed today. And maybe he was venting his frustrations in a less-than-healthy way. But he knew Vax wouldn’t mind a prank.

He led the armoured rogue outside, to the cleaved-off mountain beyond the castle, and turned to him on the edge.

“Do you trust me?”

Vax paused for a long time, right off the heels of the latest assassin incident.

So Shaun shoved him off the cliff.

And as Vax instinctively raised his head, experiencing three seconds of pure panic, the dark, raven wings tore loose from the armour, and lifted him, buoyant, into flight.

His delighted laugh echoed across Whitestone.

Much to Shaun’s surprise, though, Vax spun back up, soaring past him, and lifted him off his feet, into the air. He squealed. There was no way, without the magic of the armour, that his weight would have held for long enough. But it did.

“You fucking brilliant bastard, thank you!” Vax yelled. “Thank you!” He laughed one more time. “This is embarrassing.”

So he landed, setting a very-nervous Shaun on his feet.

“You are a dear, dear friend,” Vax said. “You are a dear friend.”

He gave him a hug. A proper one—long and strong. Though Shaun froze at first, still thinking about new boundaries, and what their relationship was supposed to mean, it felt right. It felt like maybe they could be friends this way. He hugged back, and the wings curled around them before disappearing, feathers scattered to the wind.

When they pulled back, Shaun’s eyes were wet, all the emotion of the day gripping him now.

He smacked Vax on the cheek.

“Glad you’re alright.”

“I am a great ally to you,” Vax vowed. “And if you need _any_ favours, I am your friend.”

“That goes both ways,” Shaun said. “Don’t forget that.”

And then Vex arrived, yelling at Vax about the armour, about his new ability to fly, which she had seen from afar. They followed her back to the castle. Keyleth was hovering in the door. The rest were migrating toward the dining hall for drinks.

At the table, Grog already had the ale out, so Shaun went to join him right away. It wasn’t his drink of choice, but it would do, in a pinch. He settled into the even, the warm buzz of alcohol, welcome after so much stress. And as he watched his friends bicker and talk, until the sun rose over the horizon, his thoughts were full of one thing. Death.

Death felt so close to them now, brushing its cold fingers through every facet of their lives: Dragons, and assassins, and life-threatening adventures. It even hung _in _Vax—the shadow of the Raven Queen—holding her claim.

Shaun wondered if they would all be able to escape her touch. Or if, at the end of this, someone would be lost forever.

...


	5. From Colour to Monochrome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Gilmore does SO MUCH in the conclave arc. Here goes my attempt to finally close it off. Yes, all of this stuff was meant to be included in the last chapter originally. Yes, I added a whole other chapter to get all this out there. 
> 
> This chapter works a little differently too. We're getting a Grog perspective, a Gilmore perspective, and then another Grog one, rather than alternating between them. I was totally lost at how to do this otherwise. Um... I'll be very happy to move onto the next section.

Vox Machina needed to go to Marquet, so of course, they sought help from Gilmore.

He admitted he hadn’t been back for fifteen years. But he still provided advice regarding his home culture, and he guaranteed he could transport them across the ocean with his magic—not straight to the city of Ank’Harel, mind you, but to his birthplace, Shandal.

“It’s small,” he explained apologetically. “It’s sleepy. It’s… not my speed.”

But it was apparently close enough to the capital city to be a useful starting point for them. And Gilmore spoke of it with a healthy portion of affection in his tone, despite its lack of exciting features.

He had only two requests to make. First, he handed Vex a locket on a chain, to pass on to someone on his behalf. Second, he looked at them in earnest, and spoke candidly:

“Can we end this dragon business soon,” he said. “Please. I… really, really just want to set up shop again.”

Vax gave a solemn promise to try.

Grog was surprised how tired Gilmore sounded—how utterly drained. As the group closed down conversation, and left the house, he was still thinking about it. And when they ran into Sherri, delivering breakfast, he was relieved. It was nice to know _someone_ would take care of their favourite sorcerer while they were gone.

Vox Machina returned later, fully packed and desert ready. They found Gilmore sitting back in his chair, meditative, holding a cup of tea. He jolted upright when they entered.

“Alright, gathered your things?” he asked. “Are you ready to go?”

They all gave the affirmative.

“Wonderful!” Gilmore knocked back the last of his tea. He surveyed the space, then bent to grab the edge of the central table. “Uh, if you don’t mind?”

He looked to Grog, an easy signal.

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Grog said quickly, leaping to help him.

They shifted the table to the side together, and Grog studiously turned his attention away from the dark circles he saw beneath the other man’s eyes.

Then Gilmore knelt down in the newly cleared space, and pressed a hand on the centre of the floor, like he was grounding a spell. He pulled out shimmering, dust-like crystals. They scattered through the space, then tightened into clear shapes, which looked, to Grog, like a mix between writing and artwork. The moment they clarified, they flared to life, glowing with magic. A teleportation circle opened.

Vox Machina wasted no time. They sprinted through.

“Thank you, Gilmore,” Vex called.

“My pleasure,” he said.

And he was gone.

The party piled up on the other side, pressed tight in some cramped space. A closet? Grog had enough experience inside those to recognise what the interior felt like. A soft shirt was brushing the back of his bald head. He heard Vax whining from somewhere, saying Grog’s pec was pressing directly in his eye. With a grin, Grog started flexing.

And then, at last, someone popped a lock, and they burst into the light.

“I think he stabbed my eye out!” Vax moaned, rubbing his face. “Geez!”

But Grog didn’t bother teasing him back. He was too busy staring around in fascination.

It was a small room, in dark, elegant colours, with a wine-red circular carpet in the middle. It looked a little sad, though. The shelves were empty, and drifting sand piled around corners and into open nooks. The square window was closed, curtains drawn. And a single door provided the way out.

Grog tried to picture Gilmore here. To place his soft, sturdy form in this space. To think of him packing everything off the shelves, lighting up the teleportation rune in his closet, and leaving the room to be forgotten in his wake.

Grog wasn’t even sure if this _was _Gilmore’s room, in all honesty. But his instincts told him that made sense.

Everyone was nosing around. As Vax pushed open the curtains, Grog could see palms, and desert sand, a wide blue sky, water troughs leaning against houses of wood and clay. People walked the streets in full-body robes, many wrapped with scarves.

Vex pulled out some clothes from under the bed. _Those _were clearly Gilmore’s. They were the right colour scheme, the right kind of detailed fabric.

She also withdrew a fancy box, filled, to the brim, with letters.

She opened the first one, and Grog turned away, frustrated. He hated how much of the world was written down and inaccessible. When Vax started scolding her for sticking her fingers into Gilmore’s personal business, Grog felt vindicated, in that bitter place in his heart.

The party decided to leave the room.

When the door swung open, Grog smelled sage and cooked meat. His stomach rumbled enthusiastically. The house beyond was humble. There was a large room with comfortable seats, and a second space with a low table, where two figures sat cross-legged, eating a meal—thin white hair, dark skin, bright eyes.

They looked up at the intruders in their house, startled and afraid.

“It’s okay!” Grog called quickly.

“Hi,” said Keyleth.

“This is a bit awkward,” said Percy.

“We’re friends of Gilmore!” Vax added, a little more helpful.

“Shaun,” Vex clarified. Even more helpful.

“Be pleased,” Vax said, and bobbed his head.

The others repeated the same phrase.

“Yeah, bees knees,” said Grog.

The elderly couple exchanged a look. And then, thankfully, dissolved into laughter. It was a bright, friendly sound. A Gilmore sound.

When they collected themselves, the man addressed the group.

“This is- this is unexpected,” he said, wiping his mouth clean, and standing to greet them.

He had none of his son’s great height, and only a little of his paunch, but his skin was the same dark shade. His long hair was well kept (though it was receding). But it was his smile, most of all, which brought out the image of Shaun Gilmore—a soft-lipped, full, curved moon of a mouth.

He approached Vex, since she’d given Shaun’s proper name.

“Well, I—how is he?” he asked, looking hopeful. “If you could please tell me.”

“He’s quite well,” Vex assured. “He’s very, very powerful actually, and has wonderful businesses all through…”

She trailed off.

“Tal’dorei,” Keyleth supplied, out the corner of her mouth.

“No, no, I know,” Vex said sadly. “It’s just… not there anymore.”

Gilmore’s father missed that moment though. He was turning back to his wife, who seemed the shyer of the two.

“Opesa, Opesa, come!” he beckoned.

She got up, and again, Grog was searching for the child in the parent. Though she was only a little taller than her husband, her ample figure was all Shaun. Her white hair was braided, revealing rows of burnished gold earrings. He liked those. He always liked shiny things.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said in her frail voice. “It has been a while since we had guests from so, uh—strange and sudden arrivals.”

She pulled a small pair of glasses from the neckline of her robe, and placed them on her hook-over nose. Another feature she shared with Shaun. Though somehow, on him, the nose was less sweet. More striking.

As her eyes blinked open wider, she settled an arm around her husband.

“Um, I am sorry,” he said. “Let me introduce. I am Sorren Geddmore. This is Opesa Geddmore. Uh,” he smiled, “you know our son!”

“Yes, yes, for quite some time.” Vax said warmly.

“Quite well,” Percy added.

Opesa and Soren looked charmed.

“And you say he does well with his business?”

“He does so well, yes.” Vex repeated.

“Continental!” said Percy.

Soren smiled. “This is good.”

“He’s very respected!” Vex continued.

“And brave,” Vax added.

Soren and Opesa held the dewy-eyed pride of parents who really knew their child. Who knew him in ways that Vox Machina never would. Who knew the foundations of who he was, even though they missed parts of his adult life.

“He’s always been a brave one,” said Soren.

And Grog felt that—that easy assurance of a loving father—right in his chest. It almost hurt.

His friends weren’t finished talking up Gilmore though.

“Single-handedly protecting a whole city right now,” Scanlan said, referring, of course, to the Whitestone barrier that the sorcerer was maintaining by himself.

“Oh,” Soren laughed. “You don’t have to embellish, that’s okay.”

“No, it’s true!” Scanlan insisted. “I mean it!”

They laughed again.

“Would you like to eat with us?” Soren asked. “We can make more food, yes?”

Grog was touched. But Vex squashed the plan.

“Actually, we need to head out pretty quickly, but…”

“We’re sadly on a mission,” Percy said.

“Can you tell us the direction to Ank’Harel?”

Soren blinked at Vex.

“You’re going to Ank’Harel?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Ah, yes,” he quickly accepted that no one would visit just for the sights of Shandal. “Um… follow me!”

He led them out of the front door, revealing a better view of the charming little streets of the oasis town. He squinted in the bright sun, looking so cute, almost like Wilhand when he forgot his glasses, and gave them directions: go north, no road to follow, but signs on the way.

Grog felt pretty confident with that sort of long form navigation. He saw Keyleth taking stock of the details too.

And Vex took the chance to hand over the locket.

Opesa took it gently, prying open the hinge, and holding it so her husband could see. Grog only caught a glimpse. It was a picture of Shaun, posing extravagantly, his hands encrusted with jewelled rings, and his smile radiant. There had been a similar image on a poster near the back of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods. Before the dragons.

Opesa shut the locket again.

“Gilmore is originally Geddmore,” Soren explained, clearly able to tell that the picture was used to advertise the store. “He changed his name when he went—for better business—to, um, to the Tal’Dorei place. Um... Glad he’s doing well.”

“He is respected across the continent,” Percy confirmed.

“Is there anything we can let him know?” Vax asked.

“Um,” Soren looked almost melancholy. “Just, uh, give him our love. And tell him he’s more than welcome to visit. It’s been many years.”

“We will.” Vax promised.

“Thank you,” Vex added.

“Not a worry. Safe travels. Are you sure you don’t wish to have food?”

There was definitely some common culture here, Grog thought, to the welcoming hearth at the Trickfoot house, and the rare kindnesses he’d found in the herd. For the first time in years, he remembered Tokka’s face, and the skewers of meat from her campfire.

But again, Vox Machina turned the offer down.

Instead, Scanlan asked about the spice that Jarret wanted them to bring back to Tal’Dorei. Both Opesa and Soren seemed confused though; it wasn’t familiar to them. And Grog realised along with the others that it might be something elicit. He mimed smoking in the direction of his friends near the back of the group, and they snickered.

Percy whispered something else to Scanlan.

“Yeah,” Scanlan said. “We should leave them some water. Grog? Water boy?”

“Yes?” Grog said, head jerking up.

“Can you give them some water from our jug?” Vex asked.

“What?”

“Just some of the water from the jug!”

“Which one, like one of the little ones, or the big one?”

“Big jug.” Vex turned to Soren. “Would you like some water?”

“A gallon,” said Scanlan

“A gallon?” Grog remembered one of their jugs _made _fresh gallons. He pulled it out. “Here, take this- this jug of water with our compliments.”

“Don’t give the jug away!” Vex scolded.

“You said give them a jug!”

“_No_, just give them some of the _water_ out of our jug.”

Grog sulked, embarrassed, while Soren lead them to the well behind the house. But once the complex covers of the pit had been removed, some brightness returned to him, as he realised he would get to demonstrate a bit of magic.

“You wanna see a trick?” he asked Opesa and Soren. “Look inside. Do you see anything?”

Soren peered into the jug. “Opesa, do you see anything?”

“No, it’s empty,” she said.

“Now, give it a listen.” Grog shook the vessel. “What do you hear?”

“…nothing,” Soren said. He looked at Grog in bewilderment. “You are a strange man.”

“Oh shit.” Their ears probably couldn’t pick up the faint sloshing inside the jug. “I forgot they’re old. Right, well, it sounds—fuck it. Water!”

As soon as he called the word into the jug, it began to fill. He upended it over the well, and saw appreciation cross the faces of Gilmore’s parents as it poured home. He quite liked that. He felt good when he could give gifts and perform valued services. Much better than just passing compliments around.

“You are still a very strange man,” Soren said. “But I’m very happy and appreciative.”

“I am a great sorcerer,” Grog said happily.

“Alright,” Soren said appeasingly. “I can see, now, Gilmore has his, uh, his work cut out for him.”

“Geddmore!” Grog corrected, proud that he was remembering the name.

Opesa patted his shoulder.

“Geddmore, indeed,” he said.

…

Back in Whitestone, Shaun was working through utter exhaustion, and beginning to completely lose track of all purpose.

He was a people person, after all. He’d come expecting to build up a community. Instead, he was maintaining the arcane barrier that shielded the town, and conducting complex research, and generally spending far too much time alone. Though he _knew_ his efforts were vital, he didn’t _feel _it. He wanted to be out there, among the refugees. He wanted to channel his magic with mystique and excitement, not as a dense, overly complex weight in his mind.

There was also the lingering heartbreak of knowing he would never be with Vax. But he was working through that. He was trying not to be sad. He was pinning optimism on their promise of friendship, on the warmth of their last hug, on the ease of their chatter with their friends. Things had felt normal enough, when Shaun sent the party to Marquet, and when they’d returned to bring him news.

He did feel bitter, occasionally. He did have a small voice inside him that protested at how Vax had handled things. But he tried to squash it. He forced himself to put aside any hopes for an apology.

His main solace was in his deepening bonds with his new friends, like Kima, Zahra, Jarret, and Allura. Goodness, he was glad for Allura. Magical predicaments with the barrier always resolved under her wizard’s touch.

But despite the positive moments, most of his life had become a dull ache. So he wasn’t very happy on the morning that he woke to someone knocking on his door, sharp and disconcerting, shattering his peaceful sleep. He wondered if he could lie there and ignore it. But it came again. And again.

He hefted a sigh, threw off the covers, and grabbed his robe. He barely bothered tugging it closed over his thatch of curly chest hair.

“Confound it. I’ll be right down!” he called.

And he slumped down the stairs. Dragged open the door.

“Yes, can I help?” It took a few seconds to register whose face he was staring into. But his tone shifted when he discovered it was Vax. “Oh! Good morning.”

“Hey, this is not fair. Um, can I come in to talk? Quickly? I have to head back to the others.”

“Of course. Would you like tea? It’s, uh…”

“No. I-I don’t even have time. I’d just like to talk to you.”

“_I’d_ like some tea,” Shaun said firmly. “Come on in.”

And he drew Vax inside.

He found himself buoyed, as he always was, by the presence of his friend. But he was also glad he’d insisted on the cup of tea, asserting his own wishes without catering only to Vax. It felt healthy. It felt ordinary.

As he prepared a tray in the kitchen, he called over his shoulder. “So, Vax’ildan, please tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Um, you know we’re getting closer to the endgame here.”

Shaun laughed. “I certainly hope so. It’s taken a couple of years off my life span.”

“We just killed another one of the dragons.”

He said it so casually. Shaun would never get over his remarkable friends.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How many is that now for you? Three?”

“It is three.”

“You’re making a name for yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Shaun finished off setting up the tea tray and carried it through. He settled by the low table in the centre of the room.

“So, what brings you here this early in the morning, friend?”

“I think I might be dead in a couple of days,” Vax began gloomily. So much for a comfortable encounter. “So, I came here to apologise… If you think I have no feelings for you, you’re kidding yourself. I care for you very deeply. I have for a long time. And… I don’t think I’ve treated you fairly.”

Shaun exhaled. He’d always been a forgiving man. And now he felt that seed of bitterness—that little piece of him that had shoved Vax off the cliff, that had wanted to cry out that this was unfair, that had wanted one chance to be angry—suddenly dissolve away.

Strange, what a simple acknowledgement could do.

“But I wasn’t playing games,” Vax said. “Shaun, it’s been a little weird lately, and I understand why, but I want you to know that I love you. As a dear, dear friend. And I really don’t think I’m going to be here in a few days, and I would hate to think that I…”

Shaun began to shush him, trying to sooth the rapid flow of words.

“That’s far too fatalistic for the Vax’ildan that I…” he couldn’t finish that sentence. He let his smile brighten. “That’s number one. Number two: you have nothing to apologise for.”

Vax let out a breath as well. His own kind of relief. Of guilt, pacified.

“Look,” Shaun continued. “Everything’s on fire around us all the time. We all jump at whatever bit of comfort finds its way before us.”

Yet he also knew he shouldn’t brush this whole thing under the rug. Vax had to know the apology meant something. He kept going…

“And at the same time, I- I appreciate your honesty. I’m thankful for the connection that we do have. And, yes, heartbreak comes, but heartbreak goes. It’s a part of life. It just means I need to find somebody who’s a little more, uh, my speed.”

Vax smiled. Beautiful. Mournful. Much easier for Shaun to look at, straight on.

“That guy’ll be fast,” he said.

Shaun grinned suggestively.

“Better be,” he agreed. “Don’t worry about it. Go, kill a dragon! Another! Kill two more! Kill_ six _more, I don’t care. Just know that you’re coming back. Because I need you and your friends to keep pimping out my name.”

“Sure,” said Vax. He was still so serious. “Whoever gets you will be a very lucky man.”

“I know,” Shaun said.

“Love you.”

“I know.” He had to look away before the hurt came back. “You sure you don’t want any tea?”

“I’m really nauseous right now. I- I almost didn’t come here,” Vax admitted.

“I’m glad you did.” Shaun took the second cup he’d set out, and drained it. “Now go! Stop being uncomfortable in front of me. I need to get my morning situated.”

“Yes,” Vax agreed. “Goodbye.”

And he went.

But he returned far sooner than expected, because it was time to fight the dragons. Because Vox Machina were gathering all the allies they could. And they were going straight for Thordak.

Shaun was pretty quiet in the last hours before. He was relieved to see forces amassing, to hear plans falling into place. But at the end of the day, he’d always seen himself as a merchant, and when he sat at the heroes feast with the most elite of adventurers and warriors, and ate his full, it was hard to think of himself walking into a siege.

But he watched his friends. He saw the loyalty of those who’d gathered to Vox Machina. He saw the quickness of the twins, of Percy, the raw power rippling beneath Keyleth’s lithe form, the glint of Sarenrae’s symbol at the neck of the cleric downing beer, the chaotic charm of the bard, and the powerful, force-to-be-reckoned-with that was Grog Strongjaw.

And despite the impossibility of it all, a part of Shaun believed they could actually _win. _

Things came together quickly. The Siege of Emon was a battle for the ages. It would appear in history books all over the continent—it would reach Marquet. And Shaun was there for every moment, but he knew he would struggle to keep the memories straight in his head.

First came the rush through a city in turmoil, where the mark of the dragon felt permanent.

Then they found Thordak himself, and Shaun wished he could turn tail from the _immensity _of red scale and flame and death—from the creature that had felled him once before. He didn’t, though.

The battle wasn’t clean. It was smoke and fear and a whirlwind of moving parts and people, and a tumble of magic flowing through the centre of the sorcerer’s chest, bursting up to focal points, in three hidden runes under his skin. His was worried for Jarret too, who had never been a dragon killer, and who, so far away from their shared homeland, had become like a young cousin to him.

And then the impact of Thordak’s breath sent Shaun into a world of darkness.

He woke to Kima’s face, hovering over him, her healing hands touching his.

“It’s not your time yet, buddy.”

And he had no chance to express his thanks. Only to think that he was endlessly lucky to have earned her loyalty.

He picked himself up.

“You guys take me to the greatest places,” he groaned. And his eyes searched out the dragon. It wasn’t hard to spot. But, in those seconds (minutes?) that he’d lain unconscious, it had changed. It had grown ragged. “_Oh_, he isn’t looking too good.”

With smug satisfaction, he unleashed a lightning bolt of his own.

Right after, Vex’ahlia shot an arrow, hitting home, right on the gem in Thordark’s chest. And with a horrible ripple of arcane energy, which popped Shaun’s eardrums, the dragon _shrank _in mid-air.

Everything felt easier after that—a barrage of attacks, people in the air, and on the ground, and plunging into the tunnel gouged out from the streets. When the last blow struck the dragon down, it seemed unbelievable.

But of course, they weren’t finished. They still had Raishan.

Shaun ran down to join those who’d tumbled into the tunnel, with the sickly green dragon and the red corpse. He heard thundering footsteps behind him, and knew he had support on his tail. He burst into the cavern below just moments before Grog—who was faster than anyone with his strong, muscled legs.

As Grog passed, his hand flicked out, and smacked Shaun right on the ass.

Shaun’s hip cracked with the impact. But he wasn’t hurt—not really. His blood was pumping, and the gesture felt so perfectly wild. So perfectly Grog.

“Come on, Shaun!” Grog yelled.

Shaun, full of adrenaline, was smiling wide for the first time in the fight.

“I’ll charge you later,” he teased.

And they dove into the conflict. In a magical haze, Shaun spotted the outline of the sickly green dragon, now turned invisible.

“Not today!” he said. “Not ever!”

And he threw _dispel magic_.

It worked beautifully. Raishan's form rippled back into sight—a diseased, damaged, cornered creature. One who would do anything to survive.

The battle raged on. Until a flash of bright light burst in Shaun’s periphery. It illuminated Kima, Scanlan, and Pike. For a brief moment, it seemed holy. But then a brass talon slammed into view. Followed by another. And the immense form of a second dragon appeared—metallic, this time. Brass. Beautiful. With intelligent molten eyes and a thrilling smile made of gleaming teeth.

Vox Machina let out a cheer.

“Oh, J’mon, you’re looking good,” Vex murmured.

Shaun blinked. _J’mon, _as in, _J’mon Sa Ord_? As in, the _ruler_ of Marquet?

He almost laughed. Only Vox Machina could have wormed their way into such a situation—actually meeting the mysterious, powerful soul of his homeland. Only his friends—his brilliant bastards—could have woven their way into an actual _alliance_. Into having the chance to call J’mon to their side.

And all the theories of Shaun’s youth had been wrong. J’mon wasn’t a simple sort of ancient immortal. Not a secret group of many people sharing one title. Not a persona adopted by a family line. Not a false figurehead. They were an actual _dragon. _A timeless protector. He felt light-headed.

J’mon Sa Ord shoved their way past the entrance, into the cavern itself.

“I was wondering when you’d call,” they said.

And they blew a blast of fire right up to Raishan. The tide of the fight began to turn. A little. The green dragon was still attacking. She exhaled poison again. Though Shaun managed to survive, he saw Vax fall. But he didn’t need to help; Keyleth was on the job, healing her love, eking out a desperate, tender moment in the midst of the chaos.

Shaun cast lightning bolt. But Raishan retaliated, too quickly, with another acidic spray. He knew, the moment it hit him, that it was too much. The world went black. He woke to Kima’s touch a second time.

_Well, all this unconsciousness will take a toll, _he thought. _Better be worth it._

So he embraced the full force of his magic. He let the flow of the battle, the life-threatening, heart-pounding urgency of every second, roar up inside his body, filling every part of him with pure arcana. Tearing through his veins.

His eyes sought the green dragon... and he saw she was preparing to escape. He sprinted toward her. _Slammed _into a force field.

Wincing, Shaun hammered a fist against the invisible surface. He knew this spell.

“Of course. Of course. Of course,” he growled.

The others began to hurl their might against it too. Until, at last, Grog threw a something straight through. And they realised the force field was gone.

So was Raishan.

What followed was absolute, deafening stillness. Disbelief.

They could hear distant battles echoing over the rest of the city. But those fights were closing off as well, the death of the ancient red changing things above the surface.

Vox Machina and their allies could do very little to find Raishan right away. They had to deal with the aftermath in Emon first. So, they split up for a while, carrying out different tasks. Shaun managed to snatch a few words with J’mon Sa Ord. That was surreal: to be held in his claws, speaking in Marquesian, knowing how much history was personified in this single being. It satiated a lot of his curiosity though.

Soon after, the brass dragon had to return to Ank’Harel. And the rest of them planned their next moves, picking through Thordak’s horde. They needed to replace their belongings, and find the stolen items from Gilmore’s Glorious Goods.

Suddenly, Scanlan stopped Shaun in his tracks, while he was closing up a satchel of treasure.

“What is that thing?” he asked.

The others joined immediately.

“Yeah, what’s going on there?” said Vex.

“You’ve got a little,” Keyleth gestured to her forehead. “You’ve got a little something.”

“You always look dashing,” Scanlan explained. “But you have a new added dashing feature to your forehead right now.”

“Oh,” Shaun realised what they meant.

His fucking _rune _must have come out in the heat of the battle. He attempted a dismissive laugh, waved his hand across his face, forcing it to fade. He could see the wide eyes of his friends. He was glad they couldn’t see his other glyphs—hidden beneath his clothes.

“Ha. It’s, uh, it’s uh, just a… thing.”

“Oh, that seems fine,” Scanlan said sarcastically. “Okay.”

“Magic?” asked Grog simply.

“Hopefully a good thing?” asked Keyleth.

Shaun could feel himself stuttering, even among friends. Even among his _dearest _friends.

“Everyone has their magical specialties. I, um, I carry a power in my bloodline.”

“What power?” Scanlan asked.

Shaun glanced about, at the strangers who were milling round nearby, now that all the fighting was done—some military members, some ragged civilians. None who he could trust to hear this.

“Just mouth it, I can read lips,” Vex said.

He laughed. Lowered his voice a little.

“I’m- I’m what they refer to as a runechild.”

“What’s that mean?” Vex breathed.

“You don’t know,” Shaun told her. Not many people did know, this side of the world.

But she pressed him again, wanting more information. He hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to open up this hidden, scary part of himself. He almost wanted to refuse. He wanted to gather his nerve first. And Grog, out of nowhere, must have decided to leave him to his privacy, and rescue him from scrutiny. 

“I got a new weapon down in the- in the lair,” he said, changing the subject. “Can you identify this?”

“I can!” Shaun jumped at the chance for a distraction.

With a simple _identify_, he discovered the powers of Grog’s new dancing sword, and tried to explain what they were. But his friends could never take anything seriously, even after such tumultuous events. So, stubbornly misunderstanding, Grog picked up the blade in his strong arms, like a true dance partner, and began a romantic waltz. He even ran his hands down the elegant metal. Shaun, frankly, was shocked to see how well he moved his body. Where had the goliath learned to _dance?_

The sheer ridiculousness drew the eyes of nearby military.

“Perverts,” Grog scolded them.

Shaun, wearing an intimate smile, leaned in close.

“You might wanna spend some time with it first. I don’t think it trusts you yet.”

“Take it to dinner,” Scanlan suggested.

The rest piled on to tease him. Until, eventually, Shaun managed to explain the powers of the sword for real.

“Thank you, Gilmore,” Grog said, real appreciation in his voice.

“Of course,” Shaun said. “Anything else you need?”

Keyleth took the chance. “Back to the runechild thing…”

_Damn it._

“Yes,” Shaun managed a light chuckle.

“What’s that about?” Keyleth asked.

“What’s a runechild?” said Vax.

Shaun sighed.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Vex said quickly.

“Well,” Shaun tried. “I just… It’s, um, it’s- it’s a natural thing that some people are born with. It’s- it’s- it’s a gift.”

“Like scoliosis?” Keyleth asked.

“Adjacent,” he said. “But no. It’s, uh- there aren’t many of us. And let’s just say in times past we were, um, runechildren were sought after. Not always by the best of intentions.”

Hums of realisation passed through the group.

“So, uh,” Shaun said. “I’d like to keep this information… if that’s alright.”

“Was that a problem even in Emon?” asked Vax. “Or just where you hail from?”

“Oh, it- it pervaded the entire Age of Arcanum, but, um, it’s not that it’s- it’s just not well understood, and, uh, um, just please.”

“Your word is safe with us,” Grog promised, “Because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shaun was flooded with warmth.

“That’s why I like you, Grog!” he said, eyes sparkling. “The details go nowhere.”

So they let it go.

And, eventually, they had to move on with their quest, while Shaun returned to Whitestone, to deal with the fallout of the end of the war.

…

Scanlan was dead.

That unthinkable outcome overshadowed the entire victory. It overshadowed the fact that the dragons had been defeated, and their little group was intact, and there was hope for the future of Tal’Dorei.

Because what the hell was _Grog’s_ future without his friend?

His mind echoed with pleading and pain and confusion. A part of him was still screaming _fix him _in echoing torment, unable to grasp why they hadn’t just brought the body back to life like they’d done with the others. He didn’t understand the nature of magic. He didn’t want to understand the nature of mortality.

But he had hope, in the power of Pike, and in the presence of Kaylie, when they laid out the body in the temple, attempting a resurrection.

He sang for the bard. He would have done anything.

And it worked, in a way. Scanlan’s heartbeat stuttered to life. His soul returned to his body. But Grog didn’t know how battered and broken that soul was. He didn’t predict a single moment of what followed: the room in Whitestone: the attempt at a prank: the fury and the sorrow.

Scanlan screamed and raged and cried, and Vax and Percy yelled. And the others tried to speak. And Pike was frozen into silence.

And Scanlan left them. Perhaps forever.

Grog didn’t entirely understand why things had turned out like they did, but he knew enough. He knew he’d failed his friend, by taking everything at its surface level, and forgetting to dig deeper. Forgetting to ask important questions, like his mother’s name, and if he was okay, and if he needed a break on better terms. He also knew that Scanlan, in so many ways, was trying to make the right decision. Trying to be something for his daughter—a father more like Soren than like Stonejaw.

And he knew, most of all, what really mattered: Scanlan was alive. Scanlan needed time.

Grog would give him all the time in the world.

He could see that the rest of them were angry, with themselves and with their bard. But he didn’t feel any fury of his own right now. He only felt hollow—like something inside him had been scooped away.

He couldn’t even stand to be around Pike.

So Grog went to the house of lady favours, where his buddy always used to take him. He found a stranger who looked warm and tall and comforting, and he sobbed into her arms for the evening, letting her bring the only form of solace he was willing to accept. He knew he must look strange. He was a giant, muscled warrior, pausing to weep periodically as he held his woman. But he would've spent all his gold just to have that moment—to have some time away from eyes that knew him.

It wasn’t enough. It was a distraction, in some ways, but he could feel himself changing, needing something else. Something _more._

So he was glad when Taryon came along, and provided him a new friend to torment. A far more solid diversion.


	6. Forged in Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, finally, at the end of the campaign parts of the story. I really didn't expect this fic to become so Much. Suppose I shouldn't have underestimated how much I love these characters and can't shut up about them. Um. Enjoy the intensity of this part.

Things were quiet for over a year after the dragons were defeated. Vox Machina quested with Tary for a bit and gave him a thorough initiation into a life of adventuring. Grog enjoyed most of that. He was thrilled to help with the end of Keyleth’s Aramenté, and he thrived on their visit to the hells.

But there was less urgency for the party now. It felt as though they were crossing off items on a checklist, closing off the end of an era—the end of the Scanlan era.

Grog hated that.

He knew the rest were happy to have found some time to rest and recuperate and heal from the great trauma of the Chroma Conclave. But he didn’t feel relieved. He felt restless.

And when they took some time off of adventuring, he was bored out of his mind. He’d become someone so used to fire, that without its wicked burn, he actually felt cold. He’d just saved an entire continent. He’d established peace and harmony. (Pretty much single-handedly, at the helm of his mighty team, if he did say so himself). And he had no idea what to do next.

He did close off some things of his own. He got a bear tattoo inked onto his back, matching the one Kevdak had worn on his chest. _Because that shit’s behind me, _he would explain, when each of his friends asked. He was proud of the wordplay. It would have made Scanlan laugh.

He also had Kevdak’s skull turned into a mug—proper, cultivated disrespect.

Then he travelled down the land, looking for fights, and magical items, and signs of Scanlan. He was fairly unsuccessful with most of it, but his muscles loosened along the open road, and he slept soundly under a blanket of stars every night. The moon, it seemed, was watching over him again.

A week in, he stopped in Emon, and visited Abdar’s Promenade, where Gilmore was helping to rebuild. The project seemed to be progressing well. Gilmore was even working on his own storefront now, so he was able to invite his friend inside the sparse new building for dinner.

The meal was warm and hearty—a kind of thick, spicy stew served with an enormous flatbread, the likes of which Grog had never seen before. He ate three portions.

“So, Grog, tell me what you’ve all been up to since I left Whitestone,” Gilmore requested. “I’ve seen a few of the others in passing, but I’m missing so much these days.”

Grog updated him as best he could. He was pleased to hear Gilmore had already met Tary, because he didn’t think it would be easy to explain the full force of their new party member to an outsider. But he was baffled to hear how kindly Gilmore spoke of the rich little artificer.

“He reminds me of me, in a small way,” Gilmore admitted.

“What?” Grog frowned. “You’re way cooler than that guy!”

Gilmore flashed his teeth in a charming grin.

“Well, that’s true too,” he said. “But anyway, Grog, what have _you _been up too? You must be bored, with the dragons gone.”

Grog groaned, tipping back in his chair.

“You’ve got no idea. I’ve been looking for _something _to keep the blood flowing, but fuck, the world got dull real fast. You know, ‘bout the only cool thing I’ve done since the hells is get a new tattoo?”

“Really?” Gilmore leaned forward, eyes scanning Grog’s body. “Where is it?”

“On m’ back,” Grog said.

With one suggestive tilt of Gilmore’s eyebrow, he felt compelled to show it off. He stood up, already bare chested, since he’d discarded his furs when he came inside. And when he turned around, he heard an impressed hum coming from his friend.

“Quite striking,” Gilmore commented.

He stood up as well, and brushed the very tips of his fingers over the outline of the bear. The touch jolted through Grog like it was magic. He shivered.

“Sorry,” Gilmore said, misunderstanding. “Does it still hurt?”

The tattoo had been finished weeks ago. It wasn’t fresh at all. But Grog felt compelled to lie.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, turning around quickly. “It’s okay though. I can handle the pain.”

He tried to think of something to say as he watched Gilmore sink back into his seated position.

“Vax, um, also told me I should get a bear ass on my bare ass.”

Gilmore laughed. But he followed it with a considering look.

“I don’t know, big guy, I think your ass is probably fine as it is.”

Grog scoffed, ducking his head.

“Sure,” he said. “Anyway, I gotta go soon. Was just passing through.”

“Oh, alright,” Gilmore said. “You don’t need to stay the night?”

“Nah, I want to keep moving. Good to see ya though.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

Grog set up his campsite under the moon again. But it took him a while to get to sleep. He stared skyward and dreamed of old fights—the days when all his friends had been together, shoulder-to-shoulder, ready to take on the greatest threat the world had ever seen.

The next morning, he kept going, and through his travels, he ended up in Vasselheim.

He hoped the Slayer’s Take could provide some entertainment, and took out contract after contract, seeking a thrill that might match up to a dragon. Sadly, nothing seemed to hit the mark. So he leaned the rest of his energy into the Crucible, where he defended his title as champion over and over again.

One day, Kern the Hammer showed up. Kern, who’d fascinated him in the past, and was so powerful, and fought with such spirit…

Grog came out victorious again. He was flattered when Kern approached him after the match, full of respect and self-reflection, and humbly requested lessons in combat.

“Oh, well, all my methods are simple…” Grog began.

He launched into a passionate description of his lifestyle: dedicated to fighting and full of drink and play and lack of discipline. He was so desperate to impress the other man that he barely even thought. But, as he spoke, he saw Kern growing awkward, losing interest.

_Oh right, _Grog thought, _he’s a monk, isn’t he?_ He felt himself flush. And before any kind of rejection could come, he changed track, saying he probably wouldn’t have time to teach Kern anyway.

Yet he felt a sense of loss when he walked away.

On the back of that, Grog decided to mess around with the Deck of Many Things. Reckless, he chose to experiment on a random drunken man who he encountered in the streets. And he ended up granting him two wishes by mistake. The experience only cemented the brilliance of the Deck in his mind… a mighty gift… one he would have to save for Pike.

Speaking of his best buddy, she arrived in Vasselheim soon after, to spend five months with him. She fought in the Crucible too, and Grog swelled with pride when she rose to second place. They refused to go up against each other for the champion title.

“You know I’d win anyway,” she teased him.

He didn’t protest, like he would with most people.

And Pike had brought him another great, great gift: one that made him tear up when he considered it for too long. She’d offered to teach him how to read.

He’d had one lesson with her before, on the day he received a boost to his intelligence, but most of that knowledge had slipped away when the magic wore off. He needed to earn it back. And, of course, Pike was the only person he trusted to teach him. She was the only person that wouldn’t make him feel stupid. The only one he could picture sitting beside him, lecturing him for hours, without wanting to hide under a table—to cover his ears with a bearskin rug, like he was a child again.

The lessons were slow. Everything had to be painstakingly etched into Grog’s brain. And yet, somehow, he could see himself making progress.

Some days, he and Pike sat side by side with a book between them, tracing the outlines of letters in Common and Giant, and parroting their sounds out loud. Other times, they sat opposite one another, while Pike tested Grog’s ability to form the shapes himself. Once he understood the alphabet, they moved on to forming words, working out spelling, and fixing all his backwards letters.

By the end of Pike’s stay, Grog was familiar with a whole range of short words, and he could write a full sentence. He hugged her tight before she returned to Whitestone, and then, left to himself, he journeyed to the Frostweald.

There was a nymph he hoped to visit there. Her name was Nahla, and she was exquisite. All curvy hips and long, rippling hair, and skin that mimicked the flow of water—with a faint blue glow and an array of overlapping, curling stretchmarks.

He was especially fond of her, and he trusted her, because their first interaction had been defined by honesty.

Vox Machina had been cluelessly seeking the heart of a nymph at the time, thinking they might possibly have to kill one to get it. Instead, they’d found Nahla, and she’d taken a liking to Grog right away. After drawing him aside, and hearing his tale, she’d explained that, imbued with long life, she was destined to have many loves before her end. And she’d given him her heart for free.

Their second interaction had been a little less pleasant. Grog had been on the hunt for vestiges and he hadn’t been nearly as attentive. He wanted to apologise for that.

So he dug around in the bag of holding, looking for something pretty. Soon enough, the right idea struck him—a palm-sized ruby—glittering and obnoxious and flawless—a good gift for a creature whose beauty could literally be blinding.

“Oh, Grog,” she murmured, when he held it out to her over the pond. “It’s lovely.”

She took it in her gentle hands, which thrummed with a thousand years of sheer power, restrained. She was like the water itself. Her surface seemed still, but she had enough force behind her to wear away at stone. Exactly Grog’s type.

“No problem” he said. “Figured I should bring you something. Since you were so understanding when I told you I gave away your heart.”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Well, I’m making another. For whoever comes along next.”

“You mentioned,” Grog said. “I totally don’t understand what that means, but I’m glad.”

Nahla’s eyes were glowing with affection. Like starlight on water.

“Anything you wanted to ask me, Grog?”

“Oh, yeah, actually,” he said. “This is kinda a social visit, but I had a question. You see, I’ve been getting bored since we, uh, killed all the dragons.”

“It must be hard, to adjust to normal life, after spending so much time on heroics,” she said.

“Yeah, and I was looking for something interesting, and I remembered those werewolves we saw in the Feywild. Do you know anything about them?”

She did. She told him a great deal about how lycanthropy was scattered throughout the planes. He was delighted with the information.

“Any more questions, my dear?” she asked, at the end.

Grog thought about it for a while. A goofy smile spread across his lips.

“Yeah,” he said. “You know how, when we met, you liked me right away? Why?”

“I think you know you’re good-looking, Grog,” she said smoothly. “But, on top of that, I could sense you had a good heart as well.”

“A good heart?”

“Yes. Someone will appreciate that greatly someday.” Her blue eyes were piercing. A waterfall, plunging deep beneath the surface of his thoughts. “Someone will give you their heart, I’m sure. In a much more lasting way.”

“Oh, I dunno about all that,” Grog said. “Not sure if settling down is meant for guys like me.”

She nodded, expression unreadable.

“That’s okay too,” she said at last. “But don’t close yourself off because the world has put you in a box. Think about it for yourself. If there’s anything I’ve learned in all my life, it’s that I don’t want to waste time keeping my feelings to myself.”

“Cool,” Grog said, half-understanding her advice. “I’ll remember that.”

…

Shaun picked away at a whole range of tasks after the dragons were defeated, travelling between Whitestone and Emon to participate in everything.

In one role, he was helping Allura, Zahra, and Eskil with their magical research. He wasn’t about to leave the team just because he could move about freely now. He owed them a measure of loyalty. And besides, his curiosity lived on, needing an answer to the strange arcane siphon that had opened in the Ziggarut.

On the other hand, he was helping to rebuild his beloved city—the place where his heart still belonged.

Somehow, the whole Chroma Conclave debacle had turned him into a public figure. He had new, powerful connections, including contacts in the council, and he was placed in a prominent position in the reconstruction of Abdar’s Promenade. Though the work was pretty exhausting, he had to admit he was doing a good job, and he knew it would be over soon.

_Soon, _he would tell himself. _Soon I’ll be back to my shop, and my magical artefacts, and my true passion. _

His third big task wasn’t as exhausting—his third big task was an honour. It was all about the refugees.

He was finally in the midst of them again, face-to-face, growing familiar with individuals. Some simply needed him to transport them out of Whitestone. Others where a part of his building project in Emon, directly taking his guidance as they settled in. They were claiming space and reshaping new livelihoods, whether they had been merchants before or not. Twice a week, all the families would meet up, adjacent to the charred remains of Thordak’s lair, and eat dinner together.

Shaun wrote to Tamir more often than ever before, asking her advice, since she’d helped many people to get back on their feet after the Saffron riots. She was proud of him. She even dropped in for a whole week to visit.

And Shaun saw Vox Machina as often as he could. He met up with them in Whitestone, where they had drinks in town, or went on walks with Trinket, or looked over his research together. He also saw them, occasionally, when they made the trip to Emon. He became more and more used to seeing Vax at Keyleth’s side. He smiled whole heartedly when they talked about spending time in Zephrah together. He was happy for them.

Shaun was also getting closer to his other, newer friends. He made Marquesian deserts with Jarret to take to refugee dinners. He caught up with Zahra, and they discussed sorcery, and drank red wine, and laughed over the way Kashore was beginning to linger in the tiefling’s gorgeous shadow.

He saw the most of Kima and Allura. The three of them were in Emon more often than their friends, so it made sense. But there was also a natural ease to their growing relationship—a sense, after all their tough times, that they were meant to find each other—intended, always, to be family.

Allura was the only person on the council who Shaun still enjoyed talking to after a long day of official business. They regularly invited each other around for tea, and even slept over when they had a lot of studying to do, wearing ridiculous unfashionable robes and not bothering to fix their dishevelled hair.

Shaun had lost count of the number of times Kima returned home late and found them fast asleep, surrounded by ancient scrolls and piled up tomes, cold cups of tea abandoned.

Their dear, restless paladin was the perfect person to bring refreshments in the depths of their research, but she also added a much-needed element of activity to their most boring days. She was the one dragging them on escapades around town or marching in with a bottle of something strong to share with Shaun.

He knew them so well that he saw them on their worst days too. He saw how Allura wore herself out for her work and ruminated over small mistakes until she was trapped in frenzied anxiety. He saw how grumpy Kima could get, disgruntled with the odious structures of bureaucracy, and how recklessly she dived into things that got her in trouble.

He knew they saw all his misery in return. And it was so freeing to be so in tune with them.

So, when they sat him down one day, hands clasped, and said they had an announcement, he was tearing up before they even began.

“We’re getting married,” Kima gushed, breathless, unable to build slowly to such exciting news.

Allura laughed—the bright peal of bells that only came out around her new fiancée.

“We talked about it, last night,” she explained. “About how we want to be together forever, and how we’re both know that _absolutely_. How no matter the struggles we’ve had in the past, there could be no better option for us in the future. And it occurred to us, in the midst of all the chaos and danger of our lives, how stupid it would be to wait.”

“Oh, you two,” Shaun said gently, voice all misted with emotion. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”

Kima punched him in the arm. And then, impulsively, threw her arms around him for a hug. Allura followed suit.

“We’d love you to be involved,” she said. “You’re our best friend, Shaun.”

He chuckled, releasing them from a tight squeeze.

“The things we owe to Vox Machina, huh?”

Kima laughed. “Just don’t tell them how thankful we are for introducing us.”

And so, he sat with them and talked for hours about the details of the wedding. They’d already set up most of their ideas. They had a small guest list and were planning how they could teleport Allura’s younger brother in from his work in Issylra. They had outfits planned and ordered. They’d prepared the venue. Kima had even found another paladin of Bahamut who could perform the ceremony.

But they weren’t sure about rings.

Shaun stood up right then and grabbed a chest of jewellery he’d been keeping for the store. He took out a few of his favourite items, and brought them over, sketching on a piece of paper as he asked Kima and Allura what they liked and didn’t like. He explained how he could set in enchantments, or put out an order for different gemstones. And they came up with an idea.

“Now, I’ve done nothing more than touch-up work on jewellery in my store,” Shaun warned them. “I do worry I might not be skilled enough to create something perfect.”

“It’s okay,” Allura promised him. “Simplicity is key for us, as you can see. We only really have one priority.”

“Then I can do it,” he said.

The next day, Kima returned to give him the one extra item he needed. It was a dagger—pretty and delicate, but deadly. Allura had carried it in her early adventuring days, when they were first getting to know each other, and Kima had teased her for its decorative look. She called it the “weapon of a wizard,” mischief dancing in her eyes. But, only weeks into their first journey, they had almost been captured in the middle of the night. And Allura had used her blade to rescue Kima.

It had bound them together: an unexpected treasure, which only _looked_ unassuming, inlaid with dozens of small sapphires.

Now, Shaun used his magical tools to carefully remove all of the sapphires from one side of the dagger. They were as small as granules of sugar, and came in a whole range of colours. He plucked the more common ones first: blacks, and blues, and colourless gems. Those, he pressed into a simple gold band for Allura. Then he selected parti sapphires: peach, orange, and yellow. They were added to a ring of platinum for Kima.

From a distance, both looked plain, and unadorned. But up close, the shimmer of colour came out, indented ever-so-slightly into each metallic curve.

The rest of the dagger, Shaun placed carefully in a frame, untouched side facing upward, to be hung on their wall.

He went to the wedding mere weeks later. He cried as he watched them say their vows, full of light and affection, both in awe of one another, both grateful for the space they’d carved out to be together.

Shaun Gilmore loved love. He always had. And despite the ups and downs of his past, he knew he always would. He longed for his own marriage one day. He longed, still, for the giddy laugh of a beautiful man, and perhaps a ring on his own finger, alongside his usual jewellery. One he would never take off.

He knew Kima and Allura would be right there with him when it happened.

…

Grog felt near giddy with excitement when, near the end of the long, boring year without real fighting, Vox Machina gathered together again. First, for the celebration that made Vex’ahlia the Mistress of the Grey Hunt. Then, for a proper holiday.

They chose a spot in Marquet, on the Bay of Gifts—a beautiful, glittering crescent of coastline, where the water was warm, and the sands were white, and the trees were laden with delicious fruit. Once they arrived in the tourist town of Shamal, around midday, they booked rooms in a resort called Dalen’s Closest.

Everyone seemed focused on locale, and glitz and glamour, and the opulence of relaxation. But what mattered most to Grog was that they would all be _together. _

And sure enough, every second of the holiday was wonderful. Though they fought no great battles, risked nothing vital, and mostly laid in luxury, he still found the time worthwhile. They built sandcastles, and he got his beard braided with Pike. There was good food, and there were interesting sights to see. There was a great prank and a chase along the beach. And a part of him, in his rare moments of introspection, wondered if it wasn’t the adventuring he missed so much as the company.

He wondered if, with the right company, he would always feel as alive as he did on that holiday.

After it was done, Grog dreaded returning. He worried that things might revert right back, with each person heading off to do their own thing, turning the whole group, slowly, into a family who only met up a couple times each year.

He told Pike about the Deck of Many Things that evening—a hurried attempt to create some excitement. But after they dithered for a while, and even flipped a coin, they decided not to pull a card.

His restless feeling grew.

And then Vox Machina were slammed with several new adventures. First, the Trickfoot family arrived, and kicked up quite the ruckus with their false claims of curses. And Grog, scammed more completely than any other member of the party, was horrified to discover that not _all _gnomes would make brilliant family members.

While he was still recovering from _that_, Taryon Darrington was kidnapped.

Grog was surprised to find how much he cared.

He followed the trail with the rest of Vox Machina, loyal to the end, and they saved their friend from the bounty hunter who had taken him. It didn’t take long to work out the reason for the abduction; it had all been paid for by Tary’s father, Howaardt Darrington, who desperately wanted his son back in his pocket.

Rather than escaping, Vox Machina decided to continue on the way. Tary wanted to face his family problems head on.

And those problems certainly were a lot to face up to. The adventurers were wrapped up in a whirlwind of events: going to negotiate with criminals, completing a grand task to absolve the Darrington family of their debt, and listening supportively as Tary came up with a clever new idea for the future. By the time they returned to the Darrington manor, the whole plan was in place. 

Tary, braver than he’d ever been before, called a family meeting. He faced his father and laid out exactly what was going to happen next.

“First,” he declared, with no hesitance—no room for fear and cowering and being bullied into compromise. “I will not be marrying this Lydia person. There’s no need.”

Grog watched the annoyance twitch in Howaardt’s face. There was tension in the air, like the heated promise of a fight about to break.

“And also,” Tary continued. “I think we all know I would not be happy in such a marriage. And we should all be free to pursue… whomever we love.”

Even Grog knew what that meant, veiled as it was. He knew his friend would never be attracted to women.

Tary boldly continued to explain his plan, ignoring the disgust in the set of his father’s shoulders. As he laid out what he’d done to save the family, even Howaardt began to soften. Like most rich men, he liked the idea of an easy absolution of guilt. But then the rest of the story unfolded—the strings attached—the deal that left them without most of their property and assets.

Instead of seeing it as a negative thing, Tary called it “a new beginning.”

He thought the family should start a fresh chapter, giving up their manor house to found a charitable foundation, and moving into the nearby farm, where they would settle into simple living. He would even stay with them, beginning their new life _together. _

And Howaardt was furious_. _Petulant as a child, with a thousand times the cold, terrifying anger, he hurled a chair across the room, smashing it against the wall.

Vax unsheathed a dagger, stepped forward.

“We’re gonna keep this civil today, aren’t we?” he threatened.

But it only angered Howaardt even further.

He began to rail and rage about the audacity of his son, who, in his eyes, was willing to throw out everything he’d worked for, all his life. But Tary didn’t bend.

“It wouldn’t be this way if you’d have just married that girl,” Howaardt spat in his direction, revulsion all over his face.

“That’s not going to happen,” said Tary.

And Grog heard the unspoken part. The _not anymore. _The _not now that I know who I am._

Tary gave a beautiful speech about his last year of adventuring, and all the things Vox Machina had taught him. Grog was jarred to hear his own name called out in the mix: “I learned from Grog and Vax what it means to be a man. And to be a father.”

He was shocked. He’d never thought of himself as a role model before, but he supposed he had been introducing Tary to a whole world of new things. Perhaps he’d really been a paternal figure to the weedy new adventurer. Certainly better than the one he was born with.

When Tary delivered one final honest plea, Howaardt stepped forward, all bluster and fury, and raised a hand as if to strike him. A primal urge to _protect _tore through Grog’s entire body. But he didn’t have to lift a finger. Howaardt Darrington slammed his fist into his own open palm instead. Then he fell to his knees, hammering both fists against the ground—pounding, pounding, pounding, until his skin burst and bled.

And when he looked up again, he was a broken man. One who, in his pride, had failed his family.

“I lost everything. I did this to us,” he said, tears slipping over rough cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” Tary said, more gently than Grog thought this man deserved.

Howaardt looked around, as if noticing the room of strangers for the first time. He cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“If you could please give us a bit of time?” he asked.

Vox Machina went outside. Grog stared at the cloudy sky over Tary’s hometown. He could see the barest lick of sunlight making its way through clouds to touch the cobbled streets.

He felt strange, in his belly. Something had risen to the surface when he’d watched Tary’s father. There was something there—an essence that had always emanated from his _own_ father. Strange, when the two men were so different. Stonejaw, a prominent member of a roving band of barbarians, placed against Howaardt, a corrupt businessman in the upper echelons of society. Yet they were similar as well. They held matching disapproval and vile judgement in their vicious, angry eyes. They were clinging to a type of masculinity that hungered for control and order, and refused to relent to difference.

It tugged at Grog’s heart. It brought, rising to the surface, a feeling of comradery. He remembered what Gilmore said about Tary: “he reminds me of me, in a small way.”

“He reminds me of me as well,” Grog muttered. “In a small way.”

…

Shaun packed away his research on the Ziggurat siphon—stacks of books, and a sheaf of paper, all tucked neatly in the drawers of his desk. He shook out his tense muscles, grabbed a large drink of water, and tried to free his mind of the need to keep working.

It was time for his break.

He shoved the table away from the centre of his living space, remembering how, the last time he’d done this, it was with Grog’s help. But now there was no one with him. He wasn’t sending friends across the ocean to Marquet. He was going there himself, for the first time in fifteen years.

Shaun grabbed the two bags he’d already packed, one mostly full of gifts, and stood in the middle of the room. He inhaled deeply, magic sparking up around him. The components of his spell scattered across the floor. And a moment later, he was swept through the portal that swelled beneath his feet.

He landed in his old closet.

He stepped out into the humid air that marked this season in the small oasis town, and dumped his bags on the floor of his bedroom. The place looked even lonelier than he remembered it, all cleared of things and full of drifting sand. He hadn’t realised that his parents wouldn’t use the room for anything when he was gone. A pang of sadness went off inside him.

But Shaun was also excited. He knew they were expecting him. And sure enough, the sound of raised voices was travelling through the door, eager and a little flustered. He listened for a moment.

“Soren, bring it quickly!” Opesa was calling. “He’ll be here any minute!”

“Then you get the fruit!” Soren said. “I can’t carry both at once! Have you finished setting the table?”

“Yes, of course, but…”

They continued to bustle, chattering with one another. For a second, Shaun had to close his eyes and breathe, as a surge of emotion hit him. He felt like he’d been transported back fifteen years, with those familiar voices, and this place, and the smell of the food.

Although his parents sounded much older than they’d been when he lived here, so there was melancholy too, in the moisture gathering on his lashes.

He pushed open the door.

Abruptly, both Opesa and Soren stopped speaking. They were frozen halfway through rearranging the table (likely for the thousandth time), and there was absolute joy awaiting behind their smiles. 

“Shaun!” Soren said.

And they both began to cry. Shaun rushed into the room, scooped them up in his embrace, squeezed tightly. His own tears spilled over.

“Amma, Appa, please don’t cry,” he said gently.

“It’s been three years since we saw you in person,” Soren said softly. “And much, much longer since you last came home. Of course we’re going to cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Shaun said.

“No.” Opesa pulled back, held him at arm’s length to look at his face. “Don’t apologise. You’re here now and we’re happy to have you.” She sighed contentedly. “Look how handsome you’ve grown. It always takes me by surprise.”

“That all comes from you two,” Shaun said lightly, laughing a little as he rubbed a hand across his damp cheeks.

His Appa snorted.

“You’ve _always _been your own person, Shaun. We deserve no credit.” He paused, considering. “Or maybe _some_ of the radiance rubbed off your Amma.”

Opesa rolled her eyes.

“Ignore him, Shaun. Sit down. You want to eat, yes?”

Shaun took one look at the table and almost started crying again. Every dish he’d named his favourite since he was a child had been laid out in front of him—prepared with loving hands.

They sat together, and stayed, as was the custom, for as long as was feasible, moving slowly through the food, spreading the conversation over hours. He heard all about Vox Machina’s visit to Shandal, from the other perspective this time, and laughed heartily to hear how ridiculous his friends had been. It seemed like they’d spent half the time talking him up, and the other half embarrassing him.

“We did like them, though,” Opesa promised. “Especially the charming girl who gave us your necklace.”

“Vex’ahlia,” Shaun said fondly. He could see the locket hanging at his Amma’s throat. “She’s a treasure.”

“And the big one,” Soren added. “He was very funny.”

Shaun was surprised to hear Grog was the next on their minds. He supposed the goliath did make quite an impression.

“He _is_ funny,” Shaun agreed thoughtfully.

“He must certainly be a handful,” Soren said. “With all his… eccentricities. But he was generous and very light-hearted. It’s good that you have friends like that.”

“I suppose it is.”

Shaun found himself smiling wide. His world in Tal’Dorei and his world in Marquet had always felt so different—so irreconcilable. It was nice to see them cross over pleasantly, even in the most unexpected way.

Because now that he was back, he realised time had been healing him, from the Saffron Riots, and the trapped feeling he’d often had in his hometown. Though he would never want to stay in Marquet for long, he thought he might actually enjoy the occasional visit. Perhaps with some of his friends tagging along. He certainly wouldn’t mind watching Grog interact with his parents.

Shaun stayed for a week. He walked the desert sands and met up with old classmates (most of whom were still around) and swam in the oasis as the sun sank toward the horizon.

On the last day, his Amma and Appa called him to the hearth at dusk. Opesa gave him a steaming mug of spiced tea, sweetened with sugar from date palms. Soren slid a warm flatbread into his hand, freshly made in their clay oven, rich with the smell of sage and thyme. 

“Want to go up to the roof?” Opesa asked. “Like you used to?”

“The sunset is supposed to be lovely tonight,” Soren added.

“Yes,” Shaun said. “Good idea.”

“We’ll come fill your tea halfway.”

“Thank you.”

Shaun took the stairs up to the roof, where he settled, one leg dangling, the way he had as a child. He could see both moons overhead, and though they were the same ones that hung over Tal’Dorei, their glow against the simple rooftops felt like a greeting from an old friend.

“I’ll have gained weight this trip,” he murmured to himself, as he tore his flatbread into two. “Amma will be delighted.”

Steam rose in wisps against the darkening, violet-gold sky. The flatbread was as he remembered, slightly wonky from where Soren had pinched it to lower it into the oven, charred where the bubbles had risen.

He nibbled off a blackened edge and thought about the parts of his life that had burned away in fire—two stores, and half his stocks, and all of his past loves. He’d even lost a little of his brightly burning passion. It had leaked out of him while the Conclave reigned, when he’d been lost to exhaustion.

Parts of him had changed, forever.

He would always be a little more cautious now, and a little more weighted with responsibly. He knew exactly how far he would go to save lives, into depths of heroism he hadn’t ever expected to explore. But he would also, always, remember the limits of his human soul: the people he hadn’t been able to save.

Over a year since the Conclave attacked, and loss was still aching in his chest.

Shaun turned his flatbread over, letting out a deep exhale. Flames were flickering to life in windows across Shandal, as darkness trickled in, and people lit their lamps.

The golden-brown dough in his hands really was cooked to perfection. Those charred parts, and the uneven shape, and the bursts of herb, exactly as he’d remembered. Together, each attribute amounted to something formed of love. Especially, the ones that seemed imperfect.

So Shaun thought about the ways he _hadn’t_ changed.

There was something in him that would never die, which had been born in this scorching desert, and strengthened by each hardship he faced. There were things that made him who he was. Things he would always be proud of.

When his parents walked up the stairs to join him, bringing a pot to refill his tea, he sat between them like a child, though he towered heads taller than both. And he knew, whatever the world threw at him next, that at least he could be true to himself.

…

Scanlan returned with a trick, and a lie, and a new best friend: a replacement who was _clearly _meant to be a stand-in for his old fun, dumb, barbarian friend. A replacement for Grog.

And the funny thing was, Grog hadn’t been mad at Scanlan before. He hadn’t wasted a second on resentment. Neither had Pike. As they often were, the two adopted siblings had been on the same page. They’d understood why their bard had to leave the party, and they’d been agonised and upset with themselves for not providing proper support before that point. They’d been willing to wait as long necessary before their friend returned.

But now? Now that Scanlan had come back in secret and lied to them and been uncovered only by Vex? Now that they could stare directly into his dumb face?

They were fuming.

Everyone else let Scanlan back in. They allowed him to join the group, and then slowly began to move on from their anger, leaving only Grog and Pike still simmering in overwhelming emotion.

Because the rest of Vox Machina had spent over a year processing the abandonment. They’d had plenty of time to work through every angry thought, and more rationally reconsider how things had transpired.

They’d also been prepared to view Scanlan in a negative light, so the manner of his return hadn’t exactly _shocked _them. It hadn’t completely shattered any expectations.

But Grog and Pike had given him the benefit of the doubt. So it hurt them more than ever when he acted like an asshole. They clenched their fists, and closed their hearts, and didn’t allow him to shift them an inch, no matter how he begged with his silver tongue.

And Grog, of course, was hurt more than anything by the presence of Lionel Gayheart. He hated seeing similarities between himself and Scanlan’s new companion. He hated the lurking, unshakable feeling that he might just be _replaceable. _

There were so many emotions mixed in with his jealousy and sadness. He sized Lionel up when they went for drinks that night, watching how friendly and tall and handsome the other man was, until eventually, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. His rage swelled up within him, and he launched a vicious punch right at Lionel’s jaw. To his horror, his new nemesis responded only with delight and enthusiasm, joining the brawl as though it was some kind of game, and aiming his own hits very well.

In contrast, everything Grog did seemed messy and flustered. He couldn’t hit right. He couldn’t even think. When Lionel, body pressed against Grog’s, smile still plastered on his face, began to writhe, Grog let go instantly. He received an immediate, incredibly painful punch, and a kick straight to the groin.

He stepped back. His rage was slippery and tainted by other feelings. His thoughts were a jumbled confusion. He dully heard Pike calling “Grog, stop, no, don’t kill him,” with total sarcasm coating her voice.

But that didn’t even feel possible right now. He didn’t feel strong enough.

He’d never experienced that before—the closeness of a handsome man shimmying against him, immediately followed by a harsh attack. He spun on his heel, abandoned the fight, and fled the tavern in shame.

He held tight to his fury for as long as he could.

Scanlan tried to apologise to him later that night, but Grog simply walked away. He wasn’t ready yet.

They went on a journey to investigate tales of deities and Ziggurats and other things Grog didn’t understand. Lionel continued to be cheerful. He extended the hand of friendship at every opportunity. And was mostly ignored.

Until, at last, Scanlan found the time for a proper apology. He laid out his deepest feelings to both Pike and Grog. He told them he would regret what he’d done for the rest of his life. He shared the new faith he was developing, in Sarenrae, and made Pike actually smile.

“And Grog—” he began.

“No, stop!” Grog snapped.

“I can’t apologise to you,” Scanlan continued. “Because words don’t work.”

“Mm,” Grog brushed it off quickly, trying not to reveal how the affirmation made him feel _seen. _Made him feel like an individual who Scanlan actually knew.

Instead, he let his anger, his real feeling, rise up in him. He let it pour out into words of his own.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said. “You think you can go away for a year, and come back _in a disguise, _and apologise to _this group… _and that’s gonna be good enough _for me_? And then when I’m still pissed, you’re gonna give me a combo apology with Pike. And that’s gonna be good enough _for me_?”

He could see the guilt behind Scanlan’s kind expression.

“I’m still pissed!” Grog yelled. “You came back in a _costume_! A costume! I’m not- I’m not even really that smart. It’s not hard to trick me!” He held back his tears. “And I’m a big guy, but you made me feel _small_.”

He could feel Pike, at his side, radiating protectiveness. He could see Scanlan, desperate to make things right. Or, at least, it seemed that way. He wasn’t sure he trusted him enough right now.

“I don’t know if you missed us,” Grog said. “I don’t know if somebody’s making us go down into this Zigga- fa-“

“Zigguart,” Pike supplied.

“Ziggarut. I don’t even know why we’re here,” Grog continued. “I thought maybe you’d come back and be like, ‘oh my best mate! The guy that would do anything to keep me alive. There he is! I missed him!’”

Grog couldn’t stop now. It was all pouring out—all honesty and hurt, laid bare.

“No. You come back and you’ve found yourself a brand new idiot.” He glanced at Lionel. “One that- that does amazing strikes twice in a row. And talks to ducks. Has all sorts of new tricks. Brand new model! New and improved in every way! I’ll- I’ll bet you do all sort of fun things with him.”

He gathered his will, and stood strong in his anger.

“So, no,” he finished, “you do not get to apologise to me.”

Scanlan paused for a moment. He absorbed what was said.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said sincerely. “I was just going to give you a gift. Because… the times we had together were the best times ever.”

Grog wanted to cover his ears with his hands. But he let himself listen instead.

“You might be a little… slow,” Scanlan agreed. “But you’re the best friend I ever had. And our times together were great—not because of our conversations or our witty repartee. It was because of the _fun_ we had together and the experiences we had. So last night I- I wrote something for you. I know you can’t read, but…”

“He can read,” Vex said.

“No, Vex,” Grog said quickly, brushing it away. “He doesn’t know that.”

Scanlan didn’t try to dig further into that. Respecting Grog’s dismissal.

“I just got you a gift,” he said, pulling out a piece of fancy looking parchment. “Because if- if you won’t spend time with me now, maybe- maybe you’ll be able to spend time on your own. So, I- I wrote you this. Maybe someone else can read it for him?”

He held it out.

“He may be able to read it Scanlan,” Pike said.

“It depends on if there’s long words,” Vex added.

Scanlan looked apologetic.

“There’s long words,” he said.

Grog took the paper, looked down at it, and immediately felt his body seize with dread.

“It’s a big one- it’s a bit- it’s a big one,” Grog muttered. He tried to decipher what was lying right there on the page. But he couldn’t. He quickly ducked down to whisper in Pike’s ear. “I’m really embarrassed.”

She shot him another protective look.

“I’ll whisper it to you and then you say it out loud,” she offered.

“Yeah…” but even that seemed too much. He quickly found a cover. “I don’t feel like showing off my prowess today. Pike?” he passed her the paper. “I can’t read the dirty hand of betrayal.”

Pike read it for him, out loud, to the whole group. And it turned out to be a long letter declaring that Grog would, forever, be entitled to whatever immunity Scanlan’s powerful fake identity might provide. If he ever visited Marquet, where his buddy had set up some kind of underground empire in the last year, he would have free drinks and compensation from the pocket of the Meat Man. 

He could feel himself softening, after receiving such an honest apology, followed by a real gesture, that showed Scanlan was putting in real effort.

Grog took the letter from Pike.

“Prob-probably best to test it out,” he said, still acting offhand, tucking the parchment away. “See if it’s even worth anything.”

Scanlan couldn’t contain a pleased twitch of his lips.

“Grog, I love you,” he promised. “I’m sorry that we won’t get to hang out, because you hate me now. But I would _never_ replace you. And if you ask me right now—”

“You’ll kill him?” Grog said, thinking of Lionel.

“I will kill him,” Scanlan agreed.

Grog let that hang in the air for a while. He considered how it would feel, having Lionel out of the picture, and out of his life. But now that Scanlan had reassured him, and made him feel so understood, it was hard to grasp all of his resentment again.

It was hard to dislike that stupid, handsome half-orc.

“He’s alright,” Grog said at last.

Scanlan smiled.

“Will you go drinking with me sometime?”

“We’ll see.” And Grog felt something needling at him. Some last piece of honesty not yet laid bare. Something Scanlan needed to know, if he was going to completely understand all the angst of the last few days. “By the way, I want you to know when you died I sang a song I would _never_ sing for anyone else and I’m sorry you didn’t hear it but it was really hard.”

Scanlan looked awed.

“Is that true?” he asked.

The group all nodded.

“He _sang_?”

Again, they confirmed it.

“I’m so sorry I missed it,” Scanlan said. “And I hope someday we’ll sing together in a drunken stupor, and maybe that will remind you.’

“Maybe.”

“I was an asshole, Grog,” he continued. “I’m sorry. I would never, never replace you. You’re irreplaceable.”

And they all moved on.

But Scanlan’s words didn’t fully sink in until there was more action to prove it…

Grog poured all his energy into the upcoming fight of the gods. He considered becoming a champion of Kord. He rushed around to visit deities with his friends. He learned all about the intricacies of metalworking in a strange rush of magical gifting, suddenly understanding exactly how the craft should work, with centuries of ancient technique imprinted on his mind.

And somewhere in that time, his resentment began to fade.

It was because Scanlan fought beside him. It was because, in the heat of battle, the things that really mattered rose right to the surface. Loyalty was tested in the language Grog understood best.

He grinned at Scanlan over a fight one day, and the bard called out something so inspiring it made his blood rush higher, his next swing of a weapon like a well-timed dance, and he knew he had his brother back.

His new smith’s brain turned over metaphors. He knew all about bonds forged in flame—intense heat and battering creating something strong and powerful. Something unbreakable and singular. He had always thought Vox Machina were like that. The intensity of their lifestyle tied them together firmly, leaving no room for doubt. Not on his part anyway.

And now he felt as though Scanlan had been a missing, severed piece, finally reattached.

He lost hold on his grudge.

As he prepared himself to make the trammels, destroy Vecna, and save the world, Grog’s priorities were simple. He was grateful, more than anything else, for the family he’d found. He thought this time together, in all its intensity and chaos, had given them a bond stronger than any other.

Stronger than the ridiculous god he _knew _they were about to kill.

…

Shaun hadn’t heard anything about the battle of gods. It had all happened too fast. Instead, he was in his workshop one day, applying spells to a new set of cufflinks he would be selling in his store, totally, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.

And with a flash of light and a faint shriek—like the ripping sound of wicked, unasked magic tearing into his home—a doorway opened beside him.

And he was sucked inside.

Instantly, he was lost to darkness. He didn’t feel it as Vecna’s followers jammed a powerful circlet on his head, which would keep him under. He didn’t know a thing as they stuffed him into their own dark armour and hid his face behind a helmet. He was lost from the waking world when they set him in the centre of a small chamber, alongside Kaylie and Cassandra, who were trapped in the same state.

And, like a silent, mindless sentinel, Shaun couldn’t move or even _think _when Vox Machina rose up into the room, on their way to kill the evil god, and, unknowingly, attacked him.

But when he came back, it happened all at once. The first sensation was of something shoved off his head. His thoughts lit up instantly, and his body was his own. He groaned, flooded by everything at once. He could feel an open wound across his torso. Then, with a blink, he was staring out at a small stone chamber.

In front of him, Pike Trickfoot stood on tiptoe, having using the reach of her mace to knock off whatever circlet had bound him with dark magic.

Around her, the rest of Vox Machina were marred by varying expressions of horror, mostly frozen, as though so taken aback they weren’t sure _what _to do. Only one figure was unknown to Shaun—a red dragonborn they must have gathered in their fight to reach this place.

“What happened?” he asked. “Where am I? How—”

The dragonborn raised his axe in warning, as if Shaun might attack them. _Had he _been attacking them? The thought filled him with anguish.

“What happened?” he asked again.

Vax was breathing heavily, angrier than Shaun had ever seen him. Scanlan looked like he was about to weep. Vex had her hands covering her face.

"It’s okay,” Pike said steadily.

The dragonborn covered Shaun’s mouth. Turned to the others for a cue.

“Take them…” Percy began, pointing at two figures on the floor. But he couldn’t seem to finish his sentence.

Shaun followed his gesture. And saw them. Kaylie and Cassandra. Crumpled, lying unmoving to his left and right, as if dead.

Still completely overwhelmed, Shaun took a step back, absolute horror rising up inside him, his stomach twisting. He pressed both hands to his head. To wake to this… it was too much.

Had he done this? Had Vecna forced his body into this unforgivable act?

Before Shaun’s guilt could rise too high, Pike stood over Kaylie, and cast revivify, with the familiar glow of her divine hands. Breath rose in Kaylie’s chest, and she spluttered back to life. Her father, Scanlan, fell to his knees at her side, and drew her into his lap.

Then the cleric moved on to Cassandra, sending another revivify into her limp body. Once again, the young woman’s eye blinked open, and she began to breathe again.

“Shaun?” Scanlan asked, his voice dull from relief and pain, but firm. “Can you get them out of here?”

“Um, I- yes, I—”

“How did you get here?” Vex directed her question at Shaun. “Is it really you?”

“Do you remember anything, Shaun?” Vax asked.

“Anything that can help us?” Keyleth said.

“Um, I was in my workshop, and… there was a- a flash of light. And a doorway opened and I, uh, it just pulled me through and—”

Vax reached up to him, cradling Shaun’s face in his hands.

“You’re in a very bad place,” he said. “You’re in a very bad place and time and you need to get out of here. You need to take these women and go down these stairs and hide. You are in no shape to do anything right now. You need to take these two women and hide downstairs. Do you hear me?”

“W-where are we?” Shaun asked again, lost and frustrated. “What’s- what’s going on?”

“There’s no time to explain,” Vax said.

But Keyleth understood how unfair that was, and gave Shaun the quickest explanation she could, like a true leader.

“We’re in the tower of Entropis. We’re on the back of a titan. Just try and get them as far away from here as possible. Vasselhiem is an hour away.”

She pointed in the right direction.

“Or you can fight with us,” Vex offered, full of passion and urgency. Full of so much faith in Shaun, even when he felt shattered.

“Um,” he said.

“No, no, no,” Vax stopped the idea. “His head is not where it needs to be.”

Shaun couldn’t take all the vague talking.

“Wait, so, if we’re in- we’re near Vasselheim, what’s Entropis?”

“No, no, no, we’re in Thar Amphala,” Keyleth tried to clarigy. “It’s been teleported to the back of a titan, which is a giant monster, which is what we’re on. It’s from the Shadowfell. You just have to get away!”

Everyone else protested, saying it was too much to explain, and Shaun felt like screaming. Until Vex cut through the chaos.

“We’re fifteen feet below Vecna,” she said. The truly important detail. “He’s right above us.”

“Then… what are you going to do?” Shaun asked.

“We’re going to fight him,” said Vex.

“And you’re going to go away,” Keyleth said, a little desperate now, like she couldn’t risk putting another friend in danger.

“In thirty minutes, we could all be dead,” Vax said. “But if we have any chance… you three need to not be here. You need to go down. Now.”

Shaun nodded, taking it in. It seemed he would have to understand later.

“Oh, I can- I, uh, can get the three of us away. I can teleport us. It’s the maximum of what I can do.”

“J’mon Sa Ord is here,” Keyleth said. ‘The Slayer’s Take has probably been vastly compromised. Just get out of here—”

“Get to the woods,” said Scanlan.

“And get to the woods,” Keyleth agreed. “Scanlan’s right.”

“I can probably take us back to Emon. Why even stay here?” he asked.

“Good! Then go!” Keyleth said.

“I’ll do that.” But there was one thing still holding him up. “And you’re going to fight this… Vecna?”

“We are,” said Grog.

“I hate to even ask,” Percy said, looking imploringly at Shaun. “But is there anything you can do and still—”

“If we make it quick,” Shaun said. He considered the spells he could manage without losing his teleportation for the day. And came up with something. Acting on instinct, he turned to Grog. “I can leave you with some intense adrenaline, my friend?”

Grog looked surprised.

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He watched the simple happiness set over Grog. So reassuring to see, in all this life-threatening chaos.

“I’m a fan of adrenaline,” Grog said.

Shaun rubbed his hands together, looking around at the mess of the room, and the prone, near-dead women on the floor, and the blood. And he still had no idea what had happened—what his own body had been used for. But he could trust his friends to deal justice.

“If the one you’re going to fight is the one that did this to me and them, leave a scar in my name, if you don’t mind,” he gave them a wry look. “And when it’s done, maybe carve a unicorn”

“With pleasure,” Grog promised.

And then heavy footfalls began to echo up the stairs behind them all. Shaun leapt forward, pulled both bodies close to him, and reached for the arcane essence deep within him. Scanlan said goodbye to his daughter.

A terrible figure emerged into the chamber. There was no time left.

Shaun stretched a hand toward Grog, and flung a spark of magic toward him, imbuing him with _haste_.

“It lasts a minute!” he called. “Hurry!”

He gathered Kaylie and Cassandra in his arms.

“Shaun!” Vax yelled, voice filled with sudden emotion. “I was an honour knowing you!”

“It’ll be an honour knowing you all still!” Shaun agreed, in stubborn faith.

And with a flash of light and magic, he took the two injured women with him, and left the battlefield.

They landed, as intended, in Emon. As Shaun rushed to find medical care; as he updated people on what was happening in Vasselheim, and heard news of other things around the world; as he let someone tend to his wound; he was waiting.

He was waiting to find out if his friends, and indeed, the entire world, would survive.

...


	7. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to finish this before the holidays, thank goodness! Hope you enjoy. And feel free to flick back a few chapters and look at the accompanying art I've now posted!

After Vox Machina defeated Vecna, three things battled for Grog’s attention.

First and foremost, he was elated. They’d won. They’d saved the world again. They could bask in the promise of a much brighter future.

Secondly, he was plagued by a whisper of worry. He didn’t know what would happen to Vax now, but he could sense the desperate, bittersweet tension hanging in the air, especially over Keyleth. Watching her with her love felt like watching shadows lengthen in the falling sun. It felt like watching time run out. And without Vax, without their quest to kill a god, without the world at stake, Grog wasn’t sure what would happen to his family.

So he chose to focus on his final thought: an itching, lasting feeling that he hadn’t yet achieved closure. He didn’t need to worry about the future when there was still more to do.

Arkhan was still out there. Their latest ally. Their… betrayer?

Grog had really trusted Arkhan. He’d admired the strength and size of the red dragonborn, and his fighting spirit, and his readiness for battle. Grog had eagerly attempted to impress him as they’d approached the final confrontation. But when the fight culminated in the death of Vecna, Arkhan had revealed ulterior motives. He’d stolen the dead god’s severed hand, and left Vox Machina in the dust.

Grog wanted to chase him down and demand justice. And he was urged on by the sword in his hand—the second magical, talking blade to find its way into his possession.

This one was called the Sword of Kas, and Grog knew it couldn’t be evil like his old one, Craven Edge, because it was bent on the destruction of Vecna. It was obsessed with wiping out all traces of the defeated god. And if Vecna was evil, it stood to reason that the sword which hated him must be good.

He ruminated for a while on the sword’s encouragement to follow Arkhan—to hunt him wherever he was. Yet, abruptly, something cut through the thoughts, and brought him clarity.

Vax left.

Or he died. Grog really wasn’t sure which word applied, considering the loose definitions of existence his friend had been playing with lately. But he knew, at least, that it was the end.

There had been a celebration in Vasselheim for the defeat of Vecna, and at the height of exhilaration, while the crowd cheered, and smiles shone on all their faces, there was a shift in the air. A shadow rose over Vax’s shoulder. And the Raven Queen was there.

Vox Machina resisted her as much as they could. But it quickly became clear their pleas were hopeless. This was the deal Vax made. This was the promise he’d given. As much as they all wanted to stop it, the young paladin almost seemed ready to accept his fate. The only strings tying him down now were those held by his family. And it was time for them to start letting go.

Vax stepped into the shadows of the goddess of death. And he vanished.

Grog, the dull ache of grief in his chest, wondered if chasing down all traces of Vecna would really be worth it. Without everyone. Without companionship. He asked Pike and Scanlan for help, and he went to give the sword away to the temple of Bahamut.

It was strange, that process. It took some mental effort to cleave himself from the blade. But he managed it. He really hoped the temple followers wouldn’t hurt Arkhan when they found him…

“How do you feel?” Pike asked, when it was over, and they re-joined the rest of their friends.

“I feel good,” he admitted. Pike always brought out honesty. “I feel like pursuing Vecna was something that we all did _together. _And I feel like whatever we do now… is new. And I felt like I was gonna have to do that on my own. And I… don’t wanna do that.”

He looked up at the group, vulnerable. Because it was true. He really was afraid that he would have to start undertaking adventures alone. He was afraid that he was about to start losing them.

“Grog,” said Vex. “You wouldn’t have to do anything on your own.”

His chest felt warmer.

“That’s good to know.”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “We’re in this together.”

But Grog was still unsure. They went back to Whitestone as a group, yet conversation was already shifting, people planning their next moves, mentioning journeys that would split them apart. Keyleth needed to return to her people. And Percy even suggested Grog might go and stay in Greykull Keep. All by himself. As a Lord with lands and titles in Emon.

Grog let out a hesitant whine of a noise.

“Or you could just hang in Whitestone,” Vex suggested, throwing Grog the lifeline her husband had missed. Always the observant one of their group.

“I’ll think about it,” Grog told Percy. “It seems like that has responsibilities…”

_Responsibilities and loneliness_, he thought. But he didn’t say it.

He really tried not to freak out. Yet that night, he couldn’t shake his restlessness. He was longing for something to do—something that would help him control his chaos, and take a hand in choosing what lay ahead.

He left his room and wandered down through Whitestone castle, nodding nonchalantly to a couple of guards, making his way out to the courtyard. The cool air nipped comfortingly at his skin. But he wanted something more dramatic than a chilly day and a view of the Whitestone forests. He wanted intensity, and heat, and glory. He wouldn’t flinch from the touch of flames.

_I’m made out of fire, _he thought to himself. _I’ll jump in head first. _

So, with a furtive look around, he pulled the Deck of Many Things from his pocket. All alone in the dark, breaking his promise to Pike, he selected a card.

He stared at the picture in his hands: a swirl of black so deep it seemed to contain a thousand colours at once, painted beautifully onto the lacquered rectangle of refined parchment. The moment he processed the image, a rush of darkness rose up and gripped him tight, sucking him down deep, deep, deep, through a blast of intense, powerful wind, vision drowned by red, and into oblivion. He passed out, crumpling to his knees, in the middle of the courtyard.

When he awoke, he was reclined in a comfortable chair inside the castle. His friends were gathered all around.

“Oh,” he said happily, looking down. “You got me a chair!”

“You fucking idiot,” Vex snapped. “I cannot believe you did that.”

“Did what?” Grog asked.

Keyleth slapped him.

It didn’t hurt badly, but she _was_ wearing a lot of rings, and it was rare to see her letting out such unbridled rage on her friends.

“What?” Grog gasped. “What? What happened?”

“You lost card privileges,” Percy sighed.

“Yup, hand ‘em over.” Scanlan said.

And before Grog could refuse, the room burst into exclamations, as everyone explained they already _had _removed the cards.

“No,” Grog stammered. “Wait, wait, wait.”

He muttered the word to himself as he searched his person. But it didn’t take long. He didn’t wear many clothes. His prize possession was undoubtedly missing.

“You may lose your belt for this, friend,” Scanlan warned grimly.

“Yeah, you’re lucky we didn’t shave your beard,” Vex added.

Grog let out a gasp—his thick facial hair one of the things he was most proud of.

Dull realisation was settling in now. He could tell they really were mad at him. And though he still had no idea what, exactly, had happened, he knew it must have been bad.

“I fucked up?” he said, letting regret creep into his voice.

“You fucked up hard,” Vex said.

“Percy lost his _arm_ rescuing you!” Scanlan added.

Percy gestured to his side, where there was still an arm attached to his body. But Grog was too far gone to be confused.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you?” Percy asked.

Grog didn’t really know what he was apologising for.

“No,” he admitted.

“Thought not.”

But they all looked so miserable. His wonderful deck had clearly turned out something awful. Grog had to say something.

“Alright,” he moped. “I- look, I just thought, maybe- it did fantastic things before! I don’t know why it doesn’t like me so much…”

“I don’t think it was personal,” Percy said.

“You sure?”

“I think it was,” Vex said firmly. “I think it was _very_ personal.”

“You’ve learned a lesson,” Percy said in resignation. Then paused, and added: “that _we_ had to pay for.”

Grog glanced at Pike. He was feeling a truly guilty now. He didn’t like the fact that she, and all his friends, had to go make up for one of his mistakes. Without him even there to help. After all, he didn’t _want _them divided.

“Alright,” he said. “Sorry guys. Sorry Pike. Sorry.”

They were just staring at him. He swallowed, and tried to lighten the mood.

“So, newflash, pro tip,” he said. “The cards _may_ be dangerous.”

He could see they almost smiled at that. Despite it all.

“That’s good to know,” Percy sighed.

“Okay,” Pike said. Her tone carried finality. She knew this would be the end of the subject. She knew that Grog wouldn’t go asking for the cards again. “Maybe we just leave it alone then.”

So Grog let it go.

Vox Machina slowly spread out over Exandria, just as he’d feared. But it wasn’t quite so bad this time. Percy and Vex were in Whitestone, and with their ample means, they became the comfortable beacon of light to which the rest would gather as often as they could.

Keyleth stayed in Zephrah mostly, but she wrote long, rambling letters that made everyone smile, and travelled to see them often enough. In her grief, she was slowly accepting that she needed to lean on her family—people with whom she could be silly and youthful and embarrassing, without the weight of responsibility she carried as the Voice of the Tempest. And when she forgot how much she needed them, they sought her out to remind her, descending into her quiet village life with fanfare.

Scanlan set up his daughter to go to school. Grog had been surprised to hear it, but when they bid Kaylie farewell before semester started, she looked up with a wicked glint in her eye, and promised to “give those nobles hell,” and he thought he understood. How many times had he fantasised about shocking snobby aristocrats while he was learning to read?

After that, Scanlan was happy to do anything Pike wanted. The two of them were sort of together now. Grog pretended to roll his eyes at their more lovey dovey moments. But, after seeing all that had pushed them apart and brought them together—seeing them grow over the years, seeing how they understood each other, seeing their radiant smiles—he knew he could only be happy for them. It felt right. His two favourite people in the world. Falling in love.

Pike wanted to finish building the temple in Vasselheim, so she found a house in the city.

She picked up Grog and Scanlan to show them the place, charting a ship across the Ozmit sea. The journey was fun, and her enthusiasm was infectious. But whenever Pike and Scanlan talked about moving in together, Grog hung self-consciously behind them, wondering what they hell _he_ was meant to do. He couldn’t see himself staying in Whitestone without them. But he didn’t want to go to Emon either. Not alone.

They arrived in Vasselheim and journeyed past the looming titan form that still hovered over the city. Grog grinned at the sight, blood singing with the remembered battle.

Soon, they arrived at Pike’s new house. It was made of beautiful wood panels and dark stone, with a glorious star of Sarenrae standing out in bleached timber above the door. Grog thought, for a second, that the structure looked strange. It seemed like the bottom floor had been stretched, almost magically elongated beneath the upper storey, with large windows, and a grand front door.

Pike lead them inside, to a cosy foyer with a kitchen off on one side, and then a vast dining room beyond, with a solid wooden table, and a glorious fireplace.

“Why’s it so big?” Grog asked.

“Because it’s for you,” Pike said, beaming. “The whole downstairs! Scanlan and I have been planning it for ages, making sure it would be right. There’s a training room at the back of the house, and a sitting room beyond this, with a study in case you ever want to work on writing letters. I know you said you’d send one to Keyleth. Then there’s a bedroom with a huge window that has a proper view of the sky and the moons and—”

“_Pike_,” Grog said, voice trembling on the edge of tears. “Scanlan. You really don’t mind if I live with you.”

“Well, we have plenty of space upstairs,” Scanlan said, in a sweet, sincere voice. “Two whole gnome-sized floors, if we use the attic. And it would feel incomplete without room for you, big guy.”

“You’ll always have a place in my home,” Pike added.

And Grog burst into tears and scooped them up for a hug.

He had affairs to settle in Vasselheim though. He needed to do the time for past crimes before he could truly live free in the city. So he marched off to the Bastions to be arrested. However, knowing him as a member of Vox Machina, and saviour of Exandria, the guards pardoned him immediately.

Grog was very pleased. The only person who seemed upset was the pompous, grumpy man who’d wanted him arrested in the first place. But, thinking on his feet, Grog came up with a solution. He cajoled the irritable shopkeeper into becoming his private tutor, offering a wage so high it couldn’t be refused.

Their working relationship was certainly tumultuous, but Grog kept the money flowing, and slowly, he saw improvement in his reading and writing. He even worked on learning _numbers._

Outside of the studies, Grog undertook small quests with Pike, sometimes joined by Scanlan. And he travelled. He visited Wilhand in Westruun, and returned often, as his adopted father figure grew increasingly frail. He looked for the Herd of Storms, and met his cousin Zanror’s new baby. He popped up to Whitestone and to Zephrah. He went to Greyskull Keep several times with the others, because they were trying to set it up as a charity home, now they’d left it abandoned in a city of orphans and refugees for so long.

It was the start of a whole new chapter. And Grog was looking forward to discovering what his next great adventure would be.

…

While Grog’s soul was being swallowed up by the void card in the Deck of Many Things, Shaun Gilmore was helping with the fallout of the war with Vecna. Following his harrowing experience in Entropis, he’d returned to Whitestone for healing, taking Kaylie and Cassandra with him. But, seeing them well taken care of, with his own injuries quickly tended by magic, he was unable to stay away from Vasselheim much longer.

He returned, ready to help the refugees.

Many of his friends were still around. Allura suggested some good places for him to get to work (after he carefully skirted around the fact that he’d nearly been mortally wounded) and he ended up on the edges of the city. There, several families had been left homeless by the footfalls of the giant titan.

Shaun set about teaching the refugees how to build temporary homes, using skills he’d leaned from Tamir. He advised them on how to restart their livelihoods. He provided an ear to hear their stories.

And as he wondered around their new camp, he soon found himself trailed by the local children. They followed in his shadow, begging for stories, and jokes, and attention, and he happily complied. He’d already shown off a few cantrips to the first ones he’d met, and now they all clamoured for a glimpse of magic.

“Alright, alright,” he laughed.

He rolled back the sleeves of his purple robes, and rubbed his hands together. His audience fell silent, transfixed. He pretended to ponder his next move, and slowly, sent sparks trickling up his fingertips.

He crafted several shapes—flowers, and stars, and a great, glimmering moon, with its echoing twin following after.

As the children clapped, he spotted a small halfling among them. He’d spoken with her parents earlier, learning how she’d sobbed when the titan smashed through their stable, and killed their milk cow in a single blow. Apparently, she’d barely spoken since, and certainly hadn’t smiled. But she was whispering in delight now.

“You, my dear,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

“Fanya,” breathed the girl, whose eyes were so wide they seemed unreal.

“Fanya,” he smiled. Though he’d already known. Her parents had told him so much about her. “Your name comes from the halfling word for ‘flying bird,’ am I correct?”

“Yes!” she said happily, hopping on her tiptoes.

“Well, Fanya, here’s one for you,” he said.

And with a spin of his hands, he sent prestidigitation spinning upward, into the open air. The shapes curled and formed fully into a dozen birds in flight.

They soared toward the sky, interweaving, bright and cheerful, and full of life, until they erupted into a shower of stunning orange sparks. Magical glitter fell over the crowd like a firework. The children erupted into applause.

Fanya was staring in awe. When one of her friends dived forward and hugged Shaun’s legs, she wrapped her arms around him too, whispering her thanks.

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” Shaun said softly, but he was delighted. “It’s a cantrip.”

She giggled, then took off, chasing the other children. Shaun looked up, smoothing his hair, smiling. And he spotted Vox Machina, walking straight toward him.

“Oh my goodness!” he called. “If these aren’t faces that I’ve been wanting to see. Come here!”

They collided in a hug, Shaun throwing one arm over Keyleth, with Scanlan, Percy and Vex wedged between, and then reaching down with the other arm for Pike. He felt a great weight lift off of his shoulders, simply in feeling them, solid and real and alive, in front of him.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” he said, drawing back. And then he noticed their low numbers. The faces that were missing. “Uh, most of you.”

They shifted awkwardly.

“Where’s- where’s Grog?” Shaun asked.

It was the easier question. It was the one that he was sure would have a positive answer, because he couldn’t imagine Grog being gone. He couldn’t picture an outcome to the great battle that would leave the party without their goliath.

“_Uh_,” Vex answered. “Soulless.”

Shaun stared at her for a second. Then let out a hesitant, questioning laugh. Vex laughed as well, but hers was sarcastic—exhausted and drained.

“I’m glad he didn’t hear you say that,” Shaun joked, though he was sure he was missing something now.

“No, really,” Vex said. “He’s soulless. He’s in the necklace right now. He’s unconscious and um…”

She gestured at her necklace, which could hold creatures inside. Shaun blinked, taking in the information. Goodness, these adventurers got involved in strange things.

“Oh, well I guess that’s par for the course, wouldn’t it be?” he said. And he braced himself for the next question. “And where’s- where’s- where’s the pretty one?”

“That’s, uh,” Percy began. He couldn’t finish.

“I’m right here, hi!” Scanlan teased. He raised a hand. The humour didn’t reach his eyes.

“We’re… having to make a dash to pandemonium soon,” Percy said, avoiding the answer entirely. “We were wondering if you had any advice and/or ideas of ways to keep safe in that… realm.”

It was never easy with Vox Machina. Shaun heaved a sigh, wracking his brain for the answer.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the most school-learned practitioner of the arcane arts. It’s more of a… gift.” He flashed a wry smile. “Um, but from what I’ve heard in passing, it’s a very, very nasty place.”

He was still scanning their expressions, a terrible feeling spreading through his veins.

“We will fill you in on all of the insanity when we return,” Percy said. “But we are taking Grog there to, uh, reconstitute himself a bit. He was- he was toying with a deck of many things.”

Shaun wasn’t really listening. Although Percy was the one talking, Keyleth and Vex’s silent faces spoke much louder, effectively drowning him out. They screamed of pain, and agony, and loss.

Shaun felt his own expression drop, unable to keep up the conversation.

He’d known this was coming. He’d felt the shadow of death on Vax. He’d heard about the Raven Queen and her grip on the man he loved.

“We need to talk to you,” Vex murmured.

Shaun knew it would hurt even worse, to hear the words spoken.

_Vax is dead, _his mind whispered anyway. _Vax is dead. Vax is dead._

“I, uh…” he said. “I believe I already have an idea.”

He felt as if his entire self was made of coals. They had been slowly dying, over these last years, as he tried to smother all the adoration that burned so bright for Vax. Now, suddenly, he was doused in water, cold and unforgiving. He was plunged into darkness.

Keyleth looked at him so gently he wanted to cry.

“I mean, you knew it was coming, right?” she asked.

“I did.” His throat was closing over. “It doesn’t make it any easier, but,” he let out the barest hint of a laugh, “who am I to say that to you?”

He saw tears well in her eyes.

It was like looking into a mirror of his pain. But different, and more intense. Different because Vax had loved Keyleth differently. Different because she had been the one, vibrant and passionate and potent, intoxicating in her love, who was meant to be with Vax until the end of his days.

She reached for Vex’s hand, seeking an anchor.

“We tried.” Scanlan said. “We all tried so hard.”

And his hand was snatched up by Keyleth too.

“But we couldn’t…” Scanlan continued, trailing off.

Shaun was looking at Keyleth still. This woman Vax had loved so much. And there had never been any bitterness between them, so he was relieved to examine his feelings, and find no bitterness creeping forward now, at the end of things.

Vax and Keyleth been a pair so radiant it was hard to look at them full on—and also a pair that formed the fiercest storm. Her thunder and lightning and swirling clouds. His rain. They’d carved out peace in each other’s arms, in the eye of their personal tempest. Vax had, of course, always seemed ready to be consumed. Ready to give himself away. And he’d wanted Keyleth to take all of him, like they’d walked from the pages of a classic tragedy.

And now? Now it was Keyleth who might be consumed, by the grief inside her. She needed her friends to keep her aloft. And Shaun was determined to be one of those friends.

He stepped up. Put his arms around her.

“I’m so very sorry,” he said. He felt her melt into the embrace, drawn tight by the thread of grief they shared. “The two of you shined so bright.” He felt her tremble. He drew out his most tender words. “But that light hasn’t gone away either.”

He stepped back, to show her the serious look on his face, and even to let her see the tears in his eyes—the ones he normally tried to hide.

Once she’d looked, her expression shifting to acknowledgement, he pulled on a smile again.

“But I’m proud!” he said forcefully. “My god, look what you’ve done. When I first met you, you were a bunch of _bumblefucks_.” And Keyleth almost really laughed at that. “I mean seriously. I was raising prices because you were so brash and obnoxious, but...’

“I knew you were,” Vex said, with a smirk.

“Oh, I couldn’t haggle past you, Vex. Anyway…” He wiped his eyes. “Thank you for letting me know. I, uh… now’s not my time to grieve. There’s…” He gestured to the refugees nearby. “They’ve lost far more. I’ll tend to them. Maybe once you complete this venture, we can all… have some nice tea, and some pastries. And we can reminisce and talk stories.”

He felt so vulnerable, offering that. But they seemed to like the idea.

“I look forward to it,” said Percy.

“Me too,” said Shaun.

“Now,” Percy glanced sideways at his party. “To Pandemonium I suppose.”

“Yes, push on,” Vex added. Then hesitated. Looked up at Shaun. “He loved you. And so do we.”

“I know, I know,” Shaun said. He could hardly bear to look at the pure honesty in her familiar brown eyes. “Anyway…”

He dragged out that deep part of himself that was so good at smothering emotion—at pretending, for the sake of others, that everything was fine. And he cast prestidigitation on himself, using its function in cleaning. His face cleared, his skin felt fresh and clean, his lashes dry, all signs of crying vanishing at once.

“That is a good cantrip,” Vex said.

“Well, I- I have an audience to perform for,” he said, like there was ever a time he didn’t have some kind of audience. “You take care of yourselves. Remember, we made plans. My place. Emon. You know where to find it.”

As they were nodding, he stepped up right in front of Vex.

“You take care,” he said tenderly. Because she would need him too, even though she did have Percy.

“Thanks darling.”

So Shaun walked away from them again, calling to his entourage.

“Children! Come! Let me show you why they call me glorious!”

…

Grog was at Greyskull Keep with Pike, putting the finishing touches on a series of new rooms, converting Percy’s old workshop, and the dungeon, into working living quarters for refugee families.

“Hello!” a cheerful voice called down the stairs.

“Gilmore!” Pike and Grog chorused happily, spinning toward him.

He entered with his usual smile, plum and gold robes rustling behind him. Grog thought he looked rather flashy, considering they were only meeting to have tea. But he liked it—all bright colours and shiny things.

“Pike and Grog,” Gilmore said. “How delightful.”

“It’s been too long,” Pike said, leaping up to hug him.

Grog shuffled behind her, and when Gilmore left his arms open, accepted a quick squeeze of his own.

“Now, you’re both coming for tea?” Gilmore asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Pike said. “It’s been a while since all of us could make it.”

“It’ll feel good, being reunited,” Gilmore agreed.

Grog realised they were right. It had been months since _everyone _gathered: Keyleth, Percy, Vex, Kima and Allura, the gnomes, and himself. Their tea tradition was pretty new, spurred on from the first time they’d met up, to grieve over Vax. But they’d all agreed from the start that it wouldn’t be regular, since none of them could commit to that. It was simply a whoever’s-around kind of deal. Grog knew Keyleth went in by herself sometimes. So did Vex. On other occasions, far more often, it was just Kima and Allura. They’d been having tea with Gilmore long before Vox Machina, after all. And they actually lived here, in Emon.

Grog almost missed the city these days. He was glad that Gilmore came to Vasselheim pretty often, to advise on rebuilds and reconstruction, otherwise he would be jealous of all his friends catching up without him.

“Shall we?” Gilmore asked, sweeping a hand toward the stairs.

Pike went up first, leading the way.

“Tell me about the work you’ve been doing today,” Gilmore said.

He was very involved in setting up their charity home. In fact, restarting his business had been shifted in his stack of priorities, with all his refugee projects taking centre stage.

“Well, we’ve pretty much finished the upper floors,” Pike said. “Did you take a look on your way up?”

“Yes, I was dropping off some blankets. It looks amazing. You’ve been very economic with space.”

“Credit to Grog. He’s been building beds.”

“Yeah,” Grog agreed proudly. “I’m pretty much the expert now.”

“If I ever need help with my bed, I know who to call,” Gilmore said, as they began to head out of the keep toward the city.

“Most of our old staff are keen to return and help,” Pike continued to explain. “And we have local volunteers thinking about food supply, of course.”

“What about the dorm parents?” Gilmore asked. “That’s what I’ve been dying to know. Did you fill spaces?”

“Yes!” Pike said. “We have three refugee families who are very happy to move in and take care of the orphans. Kind, practical people full of energy. Grog and I were just converting Percy’s old workshop, and the dungeon room, into proper housing for them. There’s also that off-site cottage. They’ll have private kitchens and bathrooms, and they’ll be paid a decent chunk on top of the accommodation and food. They seem very happy.”

They continued to discuss the project, until they finally arrived at Gilmore’s house. And found several of their friends standing, in a panic, outside.

“There you are!” Keyleth yelled. “Hurry over here!”

Grog, Gilmore, and Pike quickly jogged up to them.

“Where’re Vex and Percy?” Gilmore asked.

“Not here! That’s why you need to hurry!”

“We have to go to Whitestone,” Allura said. “Please let us inside so we can use a rune.”

Gilmore did as he was asked without question, sensing the urgency, and as they poured into his house, and the wizard and the sorcerer set up, Keyleth explained.

“I stayed in Whitestone last night so I could transport Vex and Percy here for tea. But just before we left, we were having lunch, and she went into labour! She’s giving birth right now!”

“That’s very early!” Pike gasped. “I’ve got to be there! I said I’d help with delivery.”

“That’s why I came to collect you!”

“We’re ready!” Allura declared.

She grabbed hands with Gilmore, and in a flash of light, the whole group was launched straight through a portal, arriving in the entrance hall of Vex’s new house. Pike began to sprint directly for the bedroom.

Grog, feeling a little helpless, followed the rest behind her. They waited outside a closed door for a couple more hours.

Finally, Pike emerged, hair dishevelled, tunic in disarray.

“The baby’s here,” she said. “Healthy and gorgeous. They’ve had a moment with her, so Vex says you can come in.”

Grog’s heart was suddenly pounding. This felt so serious. He’d watched Vex grow bigger and bigger, and known there was a child inside her. He’d heard her discussing things non-stop with Percy. But actually meeting a baby?

He could hardly believe it was real.

So he filed in after everyone else, letting them crowd the room, and exchange excited whispers, as though normal voices might damage tiny eardrums. That very thought made Grog’s panic increase.

Of course, he’d been around babies before—especially in the herd, where everyone was so communal—but it had been a while. And those babies were all goliaths. This one was mostly human, partly elf. And it was the child of his closest friends. He didn’t want to fumble the moment.

Vex was lying on her bed, a small bundle wrapped in her arms. She looked exhausted, but so smug and satisfied, and _fierce _with adoration. She was about to be the proudest, most insufferable mother in the world. And Grog, despite his nerves, smiled at the thought.

Percy was sitting at her side, and tears were streaming, unhindered, down his cheeks. For once, he didn’t care that he was on display, in front of them all. He let everything out.

“Hi everyone,” Vex said softly. “Come and meet Vesper Elaina de Rolo.”

“Just one middle name?” asked Scanlan.

“Yes, well, start simply,” Percy said.

“I think naming a kid after one of the vestiges is very smart,” Grog said.

They exchanged one of those baffled looks they sometimes did, but they both thanked him.

And then everyone took turns holding Vesper. Pike stepped back a bit, because she’d helped with the delivery. But Keyleth got a long, long cuddle, and when she said the baby had Vex’s soulful eyes, she started crying too.

Then Scanlan took Vesper, somehow managing the size difference, looking at Pike with such an intimate expression, it even made _Grog_ flush.

Grog’s cheeks remained the same deep shade as he watched the small parcel of blankets pass on to Gilmore. The man was a natural. He let the downy, newborn head rest in the crook of his arm, and smiled so radiantly, the whole room felt brighter. The baby let out the smallest gurgle, but she didn’t cry.

“Sweet pea, you are _adorable_,” Gilmore murmured. “We can’t wait to shower you with love. There are a lot of adults in your life just dying to spoil you rotten.”

“Her father will be first in line for that,” Vex said, no scorn in her tone at all.

Everyone laughed.

“And Shaun?” Percy said. “You aren’t just ‘adults in her life.’ You’re uncles and aunts. All of you.”

Gilmore nodded at him, eyes filling with tears. Then he softly whispered something more to Vesper.

“Grog,” he asked. “Would you like her next?”

“Oh,” Grog said. “Yeah, okay.”

He held out his arms, feeling far too huge and unwieldly. But Gilmore was so gentle in the exchange that it seemed okay. He carefully settled the Vesper in Grog’s elbow, fingers lingering tenderly as he let go.

Grog was completely frozen for a moment. He stared at the tiny thing in his arms.

She was absurdly small. Perhaps he was too accustomed to goliath-sized newborns, and to seeing the babies of other races only after they were old enough to be carried about outside. Or perhaps she was just little because of her early birth.

Mostly, she looked kind of squishy and pink. Her cheeks were super round, and her thatch of black hair was wispy. There were dimples atop each knuckle on her hand. Tiny fingernails. Little chubby wrinkles at her wrists. A slight point on her ears.

But Keyleth had been right. She had these dark, expressive eyes, like her mother’s. Like Vax’s. Currently, they were inquisitive. They seemed to ask: _who are all these strange people?_

“We’re your family,” Grog told her, barely aware he was speaking aloud. “We’ll be looking after you, okay?”

She didn’t answer. Just blinked a bit.

Grog’s nose felt kind of twitchy, like he might cry. He looked up at the others.

“How, um, how do I give her to someone?”

“Here, I’ll take her,” Allura offered.

Grog missed the soft, warm weight of Vesper instantly. But he was also a little relieved to be free of the stress of holding her.

Kima was worried about how fragile the baby was too, so she crowded in with her wife, eyes round, and tucked a finger into a tiny grasping hand.

While everyone kept their eyes on Vesper, Grog took a step back, trying to gather himself.

“How much does she weigh?” Allura asked.

“Just over five pounds,” Percy said, like every fact was a treasure.

“That’s on the small side, for a human baby,” Pike explained, with a glance at Grog, who didn’t know numbers well enough yet.

“But she’s determined,” Vex said, her eyes shiny. “She had to come early.”

“I’m not surprised,” Gilmore laughed. “She’s a Vox Machina baby.”

“And she’s _so_ cute,” Keyleth said. She still looked star struck.

“Goodness, yes,” Percy agreed. “So like her mother.”

“I don’t know,” Gilmore said. “I think she’ll have her father’s nose. You can kind of tell, even when they’re babies.”

“I hope she does,” Vex said sweetly, giving Percy’s big nose a little tap.

Grog blinked his tears away. He felt so honoured, to be there for a special moment like this. And a chasm of longing was opening inside him. A yawning need was taking his heart.

_I want one, _he thought, for the first time in his life. _I want to be a father._

He’d never considered it before, even though he’d always liked children, and they’d always liked him back. All it took was a little childish whimsy and they soon got over his intimidating looks and fully committed to playing with him. He made an awesome climbing frame!

But his own father had been so awful, it’d been hard to imagine himself in similar shoes. It had been a concept he’d always avoided.

_Does my father matter though? _Grog asked himself. _Vex had an awful father, and look at her. She loves this baby so much already. Could I just be my own kind of dad? Could I do better?_

He wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

Instead, he nursed his new dream close to his chest, telling no one. Not even Pike. Despite all the things he treated carelessly in life, this was one thing he had to take seriously. This was the one thing for which he might set aside his proclivity for impulse and risk.

Luckily, he was far away from the stages of life that might lead him to parenthood. He had time to think.

…

It had been exactly one year since Entropis, and sometimes, Shaun still dreamed of phantom pains in his side, where his friends had cut him. He dreamed of waking to see his hands covered in blood, with Kaylie and Cassandra lying, butchered, at his feet.

It was a more exaggerated version of what had really happened. Yet his mind refused to let it go.

Shaun, in the dream, would always crumple to his knees in abject horror. But despite the yawning emptiness in his stomach, sickness rising up to swamp his mind, he was never able to throw up. Sometimes, he would just wake, soaked in sweat, in his own bed. Other times, the dream continued.

The cavernous room in the tower would grow to an echoing chamber, spreading endlessly overhead. Shaun would look up. Then down. And there they would be. His other friends, his family, all the loved ones of his life, laid out dead on the ground.

He would stumble between the bodies, trying not to look. He would scream for someone to help.

And then he would see Vax.

Vax would be standing, with a black knife in his hands, weeping. He would hold up the weapon to Shaun.

“I hurt you,” he’d say. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Shaun would yell. But his hands moved of their own accord, taking the beautiful obsidian blade, carved with ravens.

“You should,” Vax would say. “It’s my fault you got tied up in this. Didn’t I tell you, over and over, how sorry I was? Make me really regret it. Make me feel it.”

He opened his robes—black, for the Matron of Ravens—to reveal his too-pale chest, all his natural colour leeched away.

“Embrace the pain, Shaun. This is who you are now.”

Normally, in the dream, Shaun would watch in horror while his body thrust out the knife, cleaving a scarlet mark through Vax’s chest. And when his old love crumpled, Shaun would follow, bleeding out. Dying with him.

But that night, one year after Vecna’s defeat, it changed.

“Shaun!” Vax’s voice echoed through the chamber. “This is a dream. It’s not real!”

Shaun turned, seeking the source of the sound, because the mouth of the sacrificial figure before him hadn’t moved.

“Vax’ildan?” he murmured.

“You didn’t hurt _anyone, _Shaun. Remember that.”

“I- I know,” he said, realising the words were true as they passed his lips.

For the first time, prior to waking, he became aware that the scene was a perversion. It wasn’t what really happened, on that day, one year ago. He hadn’t really killed anyone. He hadn’t been Vecna’s puppet in _that _way.

And it didn’t matter what pain Vax had caused him. He would _never _hold that against him.

“Vax, I won’t hurt you,” he said.

“I know,” the voice cried.

“This isn’t who I am,” said Shaun, no longer seeking Vax, but staring into the black depths of the ceiling. “The world has hurt me, but I chose healing every time. I chose life. I _did._”

“You did,” Vax said. “I know you’re struggling, now I’m gone. Like slipping—”

“Like slipping backward into the past,” Shaun said, because his mind was putting all the pieces together.

This dream was about a hurt deep inside him, which he’d been holding without even knowing. He’d accepted that Vax had chosen Keyleth. He’d accepted their love giving way to friendship, and he’d started to heal. He’d even looked toward the future with hope.

But when Vax died, he’d slid back into pain. He was being haunted by the part of himself that still _needed _his love.

He was torn up over the injustice of it all: love lost, then lost again.

“My greatest regret, Shaun, was hurting you,” Vax said.

Shaun wondered, then, if this was more than a dream. He was sure his subconscious wouldn’t have come up with anything quite so self-indulgent.

“Stop regretting,” Shaun said. “I- I want to move forward. Every second of loving you helped make me who I am. I’ve forgiven you. I wouldn’t change anything. I told you.”

And the beautiful sound of laughter bounced off the cavern walls.

“Sometimes we mortals need to hear things a few times. Before it really sinks in.”

“That’s true,” Shaun smiled.

“So put down the knife, Shaun. And heal.”

Shaun let the blade drop. It vanished before it hit the ground. He touched a hand to his chest.

“I will.”

And he knew the voice of Vax was gone.

When his eyes turned down again, he saw the phantom Vax had faded too. The rest of the room was still full of other bodies, but they weren’t quite so brutalised now. They looked like they might be sleeping.

Shaun wasn’t sure why the dream was still going, but perhaps his brain needed to live out these metaphors.

He stepped up to the first form, to Keyleth, and he laid his hands on her. A rush of healing surged through him, tingling across his fingertips, and she opened her eyes, and smiled. She set one palm against his cheek.

“Keep going,” she whispered. And she faded peacefully away.

Shaun healed the entire room, body after body, and this time, he was reminded how many people he _did _have—so many loved ones in his life.

He reached the last figure.

Grog Strongjaw lay on his back, arms folded across his chest, sweet smile on his bearded face. Shaun paused for a breath, pleased that this long vision was nearly over. His eyes skirted the goliath marks across arms and chest, and the scar right over the heart. Things felt more intimate, with so much bare skin on display.

“Last one,” Shaun whispered.

He reached out his hand, the endless supply of healing magic still flowing inside him, and brushed his fingers up the length of Grog’s scar.

Grog woke with a flutter of dark lashes. The moment their eyes met, the dream faded away, leaving only the impression of grey irises, bright and promising against the dark of night. The image seemed to linger even after Shaun woke.

It was early morning, and he lay there, a little stunned from the dream.

The anniversary of Vax’s death was also the anniversary of the fall of Vecna, so in the temples, bells soon began to ring, heralding the dawn and the day of remembrance.

Shaun got dressed as quickly as possible, in a beautiful white robe, and walked down to the temple of the Raven Queen. He’d timed his visit to Vasselheim on purpose. He’d wanted to visit the temple for a while, but never quite got up the courage, until he’d planned to save the trip for this special day.

Though he hadn’t expected to have such significant things to say to Vax.

The temple was busy—most people knew the Champion of the Raven Queen was one of the heroes of the city—but Shaun liked it that way. It made the home of death feel almost alive.

He ended up kneeling beside a pool of blood. Honestly, he decided that was a little creepy. But today was about more than just squeamishness.

“Fuck, why did I wear white?” he said. “If this splashes…”

But there were others there in similar colours. In fact, most of the temple seemed full of black, white, and red fabrics. So he let himself settle in the quiet, and focus on why he’d come.

“Vax’ildan died today,” he whispered to the pool of blood. “One year ago, today, that is. I didn’t even find out he was gone until later, but I wanted to pay remembrance at the proper time.”

He blinked back tears, steadying himself. He wouldn’t spend this day crying.

“Thank you, for the dream,” he said. “I don’t know if it was you, goddess, or if Vax had something to do with it, or if I spun my own fantasy. But if it _was_ just me, I’m grateful no divine intervention came rocketing down to block my brain.”

He couldn’t help the little smile on his face. He felt foolish, praying. It wasn’t exactly something he did regularly. Or ever.

“This is a special occasion,” he said aloud. “So that’s why I’m here. I don’t want you to think I’m making a habit or anything. I may not even come the next year. But Vax knows I’m a busy man. He’ll forgive me.”

Shaun smoothed his robes, thinking of how that would make Vax smile—the grin where his eyes fully crinkled.

And then he was lost in memories for a while. He watched worshippers come back and forth. Some were praying for their departed, hoping their people had been guided safe into the afterlife. Others were praying for the city of Vasselheim as though it were a friend, asking after its fate, and thanking the Raven Queen for its continued survival.

Some, especially those who seemed to be acolytes, would even touch the surface of the blood. A few stripped down, and waded in.

Shaun stared at that in fascination. He wondered if Vax had ever done that, and his mind conjured smooth golden skin, vanishing beneath the red. He suddenly understood, a little, why the temple would choose such aesthetics. There _was _something beautiful about the image.

He shook himself.

“See, there I go,” he said. “Thinking about you like a fool with a crush. Moving on is… a process. It’s messier than I would like. There are so many layers to recovery. But I love you, still. I can keep loving you, even if you’re gone, and I can be okay with that.”

He ducked his head right down, and whispered the next words barely louder than a breath.

“It’s been an honour knowing you.”

And he left the bustling temple behind.


	8. In Orbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it occurred to me i should tell you all to check me out on twitter @ ceylonthae or tumblr @ ceylonntea if you want to see previews for this fic or simply yell to me about grogmore! 
> 
> anyway, go read the chapter first. it's got a whole Lot of feelings...

Walking through the warm sand around the Bay of Gifts, watching the cresting waves, tasting the salty air, Grog felt a grin spread across his face. They had finally returned to Dalen’s Closet—for Vex and Percy to renew their vows this time—and the place brought so many good memories.

Of course, the weekend itself didn’t turn out to be simple. Things were never that easy for Vox Machina. The rehearsal dinner was interrupted by a poisoning, a kidnapping, and a near death experience for the bride. Grog and the others had to leap into action to save the day.

But the outcome was wonderful. As the recovered guests gathered atop a cliff over the ocean, golden glow in the sky behind them, the first stars blinking to life on the distant horizon, they decided to simply hold the wedding early. Right then and there.

Grog performed very well in his role as their flower-girl. Puffed up with pride, he stood beside the happy couple and watched them trade vows under the indigo sky. There were tears in his eyes simply hearing that part, and when Scanlan used a spell to grant them a brief visit from Vax, who stepped out from the world beyond the grave, he felt those tears spill down his cheeks.

He was glad when the party kicked off right after the ceremony.

Music erupted over the clifftops, and the guests quickly cleared a dancing ring. They bubbled with cheerful laughter and bright conversation, buoyed by the moving speeches. And though the real wedding meal wouldn’t be ready until the next day, a little magic helped produce enough finger food to go around. Someone even brought the alcohol that had been stored in the resort below.

Grog launched himself into the crowd. He danced with Pike and the others. He scoffed as much food as he could, feeding some of it to Trinket, who sat peacefully on the side-lines. He went around and greeted everyone he knew.

To be honest, with the drinks flowing, he also greeted a lot of people he _didn’t _know.

“Hi Gilmore!” he yelled suddenly, spotting the sorcerer refilling plates of food with bursts of arcane purple. “That looks so pretty!”

Gilmore turned, amused smile springing to his lovely lips. He looked as pretty as the food he was summoning. He wore robes of gold and silver today, glimmering and enticing like the rarest shiny treasure.

“Thank you, Grog,” he said.

“How come you’re sorting out food?” Grog said. “You should dance! You’re a guest!”

Gilmore laughed.

“True enough. But since this all happened so impromptu, I figured I should help. The kitchen wasn’t going to be ready until tomorrow, and its not fair to ask them to scramble now. Besides, I was knocked out for the fight; I have a lot of spells to spare.”

“Are you summoning cake?” Grog asked hopefully.

“Maybe you can help me with that.” Gilmore’s eyes sparkled in the light. “You don’t happen to know where the cake from the Slayer’s Cake was being kept? I know Kiki really wanted it at the wedding, but the kitchen was preparing their own, so I’m not sure if they’ll listen.”

“Oh!” Grog remembered. “I saw it in the kitchen. On the back bench.”

“What were you doing in there?”

“Not stealing snacks.”

Gilmore laughed again.

“Right. Let’s summon it then, do you think?”

“Yes!”

So Gilmore shook back his sleeves, and gave another flick of the wrist. This time, the glorious creation from the Slayer’s Cake appeared in the centre of the table.

“I’m having some!” Grog declared, reaching for a knife.

“Grog, usually the bride and groom cut the—”

“It’s okay, you said they have another one.”

Gilmore seemed to understand that there was little point in arguing. He stepped back to let Grog carve off an enormous slice, shaking his head fondly. Grog shoved a bite straight in his own mouth, and then, with a glance to his companion, cut a second enormous piece.

“One for you,” he said, holding the plate out to Gilmore.

“Oh, thank you.”

Gilmore took it, looking a little daunted by the serving size. Their fingers brushed.

“No problem,” Grog said, suddenly feeling rather warm. “Anyway, time for ale!”

And he scampered off, leaving Gilmore standing behind him, holding a plate full of cake, wearing a baffled grin.

Grog ended up at the drinks table. Scanlan came to join him, refilling his glass with a sweet red wine.

“So, Grog?” he asked casually. “Weddings are a great place for sex, you know?”

Grog looked at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re offering.”

“Don’t be silly,” Scanlan smirked. “I’ve just seen so many people eyeing you up, and that woman over there…” He pointed. “Brunette, red dress, freckles. She asked me if you were available.”

“Oh, cool,” Grog looked at her. She was gorgeous. But there was something—something in him that held him back. “I dunno, Scanlan. I wasn’t planning on going with someone tonight.”

Scanlan screwed up his nose.

“Thought you were always up for that kind of fun?”

“Maybe later,” Grog said. Scanlan was right, after all. When did he ever say no to a beautiful woman? “Hey, you tried the cake?”

And the conversation veered off course.

Vex and Percy joined them at the table soon after. He was leaning on her shoulder, mumbling something in her ear, and she was laughing.

“Hello boys, having fun?” Percy asked when he saw them.

His cheeks were absolutely bright pink, his spectacles a little askew. Grog had rarely seen him quite so sloshed—drunk on some combination of the wine in his glass and the sheer radiance of his bride.

To be fair, she seemed a little unsteady herself.

“We’re having lots of fun,” Scanlan grinned, eyeing them. “Though apparently not as much as you. I can’t believe you already snuck off into the bushes.”

“We didn’t even have sex,” Vex said dismissively. “We just made out.”

“A lot.” Percy giggled.

“Yes, quite a lot.” His wife shot him a smug look. “But, actually, the babysitter’s bringing Vesper here soon. She sleeps like clockwork, that girl—”

“I like clockwork,” Percy hummed.

“—so we wanted to let her finish her nap during the ceremony. But she’ll be up now, so she’ll come for some cuddles, and a quick dance—”

“I love her,” Percy sighed.

“—we just need to get some water in us first,” Vex finished.

She filled a generous glass for her husband, and then vanished for a moment to fetch two servings of cake. For a long time, the four friends were quiet, enjoying the scene of the party spread before them. Vex moaned obscenely as she polished off her plate.

“Who brought the cake up?” she asked. “I owe them the biggest hug.”

“Gilmore,” Grog answered happily. “He’s so cool.”

“He _is_ so cool,” Vex agreed.

Grog could see Gilmore dancing in the crowd, twirling his elegant hands so that his rings sparkled in the light.

“Vesper’s here!” called Percy.

And the babysitter was approaching.

Little Vesper was wearing an adorable shade of blue, a cosy cardigan and thick socks pulled on with a puff of a dress. And she was staring at the party, her eyes round with the kind of awe Grog had only ever seen in babies—an expression that came from seeing _everything _for the first time. Lights and singing and shouts. All new.

Vex was pretty much sober now. She reached out steady hands for her daughter, and gathered the small bundle close, cooing a gentle greeting. Percy hooked his chin on her shoulder to stare at his kid as well.

Grog could hear what they were whispering, telling her that they’d had a big wedding now, so they were pretty much twice-married. Telling her she’d have to get used to cheesy stuff like that. Telling her that she was a part of their endless outpouring of love, and they would never ever let her forget that. They would never stop adoring her.

Grog felt sort of teary eyed again. He saw Scanlan was in the same state.

“We’re so drunk,” Grog laughed, wiping his eyes.

Scanlan snorted.

“Yeah, totally,” he said. Then he gave a dreamy smile. “But having kids is the best.”

And he went to say hi to the baby too, so Grog followed in his wake.

Her eyes flicked up to focus on his large form when he appeared. She bared her gums at him—not quite a smile, he thought. Vex had once told him something about how babies had to grow up a little before they learned to smile. So perhaps it was just gas. But he was enchanted.

Scanlan took a turn holding Vesper. Then he held her up to Grog.

Grog, as always, felt overwhelmed. He was glad the baby got less fragile every time her saw her, but after watching Vex and Percy make such an effort to sober up, he wondered if he was too drunk for babies. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking whether that was a thing or not.

“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly. “But hello Vesper.”

She let out a funny gurgle, and he felt his heart melting. He returned to the party before he got totally caught up.

Grog danced a little and drunk a lot. He avoided the gaze of the woman that Scanlan had pointed out, and he avoided examining _why _he didn’t want to go off with her. When Vex and Percy vanished, and most of the guests started leaving for bed, he stayed behind. He played a game of catch with Pike and Keyleth, using the bouquet. Then the few remaining people cleared out the tables and picked up the rubbish before finally heading off to bed.

Grog couldn’t sleep though. There was a restlessness inside him. And he wasn’t the right kind of drunk to fall straight into slumber.

Something was calling him outside—something that felt unfulfilled and frustrated. He wondered, for a moment, if he should have slept with someone after all. Or maybe he just needed to stretch his legs.

Following the impulse, Grog clambered out his window and tumbled straight into the sand. It wasn’t quite a face-plant, but his entire chest was covered in grit. At least he got to his feet without much bother.

The night was strangely quiet now. When he glanced up at the clifftop where they’d held the wedding, it was dark and lonesome, as though the flow of life had never existed. The sound of waves had become the only thing in the air. Their watery whispers carried over the vast space of the beach. Grog wished he could understand them.

He wandered down toward the ocean, humming softly to himself. The moonlight was gleaming on the tops of each swell. Both moons were high overhead.

“Hello, moons,” Grog said happily.

He walked until his calves were submerged. The gentle blanket of saltwater lapped up high against him, and then pulled out to leave him standing on damp sand. Then in again. Then out.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation.

“Well, hello, fancy meeting you here.”

Gilmore’s voice made Grog start and spin around, feet splashing.

Gilmore stood back from the water, hands in the pockets of a long batik night coat that he must have changed into before bed. It made him look broad and soft and comfortable. His hair was out from its usual ponytail as well. Grog found himself staring.

“Hi Gilmore,” he managed.

Gilmore tipped his head to one side.

“You know, everyone else calls me Shaun by now.”

“Oh.”

“You’re allowed to do the same,” Gilmore said, taking his first steps toward Grog.

His hem was soaked instantly, but he didn’t seem to mind. He came to a stop beside Grog and tipped his face up to the sky, closing his eyes. He looked so compelling—like he could drink the celestial bodies above them, moons changing orbit to greet that calm face.

Grog was stuck on his last statement too, unsure what to say. He didn’t know why he’d never switched over to using Gilmore’s first name. It had always seemed very… intimate. He would have to practice it in his head first.

“It’s a nice night,” Shaun remarked.

“Yeah, ’s good,” Grog said. “Thanks for helping us clean before.”

“No problem. Though I still feel bad for leaving earlier than you.”

“Nah.” Grog waved a hand. “Pike and Keyleth told you to go.”

“Still,” Shaun said. “I couldn’t sleep, so I may as well have stayed. Were you there until it was all done?”

“Right to the end,” Grog puffed out his chest. “Top quality cleaner, tha’s me.”

“Top quality friend,” Shaun added.

Grog felt his face heat. He folded his arms.

As they stood there, silent, looking at the sky, his mood began to turn melancholy once more. There was still something aching in his chest. He considered the night that had just passed, and at last, pin-pointed his restlessness.

“Good for fun and drinking,” he said. “Good for heavy lifting. Good for fights. Not good for… other stuff.”

Shaun looked genuinely surprised. Perhaps at the admission as much as the sentiment itself. He turned right toward Grog, ignoring the moons and the view.

“Grog, you’re an _amazing_ friend. I mean it.”

“I only…” Grog sighed, dragged a hand over his face. His inhibitions were really down. “I don’t know how to say this… do you think I’m too childish to be a father?”

He saw the surprise in Shaun’s face again, hidden better this time.

“Are you about to become a father, Grog?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh! No! I’m not _Scanlan. _I haven’t got anyone pregnant_._” In fact, Grog hadn’t even slept with anyone for a while.

Shaun chuckled.

“Just checking what context we’re speaking in.”

“Right. I only thought, recently, I’ve been spending time with Vesper… and I always liked kids… I only thought…”

“That you want to be a father?” Shaun asked, when it was clear Grog was too shy to say more.

“Yeah,” Grog said, looking sideways at him again. “One day.”

“I think that’s a wonderful ambition. And I don’t think you’ll be too childish.”

Grog’s words began to pour out of him.

“But I’m- I don’t know anything about babies. I didn’t even hold Vesper tonight. I was too _drunk. _And she was too _small. _But she was so cute!” He sighed. “I wouldn’t be mature enough to be a _Dad_, would I? I didn’t even have a very good Dad, so it’s not like I saw many examples. And I’m not smart. I wouldn’t be able to teach a kid any important stuff, ‘cept fighting, and fighting would be dangerous. I- I would only be able to love them. That’s it.”

“Grog,” Shaun interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “You’ve just said the most important thing.”

“What?”

“That you would love your kid,” he said gently.

Grog’s eyes filled with tears again. Shaun was watching him with such intensity, he had to look away.

“‘Course I would.”

“I’m sorry to hear that your father wasn’t very good,” Shaun said. “But it doesn’t mean you’re destined to follow in his footsteps. I think the simple fact that you’re worrying about this so early is proof that you’ll try to be better.”

“I will.”

“And you would have plenty of time to learn about babies, with lots of friends to help you.”

“Like Vex and Percy?”

“Yes,” Shaun said.

“And you?” Grog asked. “Not- not that you have to. I just… didn’t tell anyone else I was thinking this. Not even Pike. And I feel… kind of lost.”

“I’ll help,” Shaun promised.

They didn’t speak for a moment after that. Shaun was still watching Grog, while Grog, face hot, kept his eyes on the moons. He wished desperately for a subject change. He felt too exposed.

“Why are you covered in sand?” Shaun asked, like he could read minds.

“Huh?” Grog looked down at himself. A laugh bubbled up, the more joyous gifts of alcohol coming to the surface and chasing the sadness away. “Oh! I’m a bit tippy- tipsy! And I tipped over out my window when I came here.”

“Oh dear,” Shaun said.

He reached up a hand and brushed some of the sand away. Then, all at once, he seemed to remember Grog was shirtless. His fingers slowed and stilled on the warm skin. Then withdrew.

“See? I’m a mess!” Grog said.

Shaun laughed.

“Oh please, there’s always more charm in someone willing to make a mess of himself.”

“What, like someone hot and stupid?” Grog asked, but his voice was light. He was feeling better.

“Well, I’ve never been attracted to the classically intelligent.”

Grog’s heart, for some reason, was picking up speed. He was glad Shaun had removed his hand. Otherwise he might have felt it.

“What, not even someone like Percy?”

“Not me,” Shaun chuckled.

“But almost _everyone_ liked _Percy_ at some point.”

Grog was genuinely surprised. He wasn’t the most intuitive, but he’d overheard enough conversations to know that this was true. For goodness sake, even that evil green dragon had seemed to like Percy.

“I guess I see what the appeal is, but he’s not for me,” Shaun said thoughtfully, turning back toward the moon and the ocean. “In fact, of all the men of Vox Machina, he might be my last pick.”

Grog’s flush extended all the way up his ears, and down his neck. It must have been visible. He knew Vax was the first pick, of course. Everyone knew that. But he wanted to ask where _he _fell in the ranking.

Yet he held back, uncharacteristically cautious.

“Anyway,” Shaun said. “I really do think you’d be a good father, Grog. I saw you with Salda’s children in Emon that time. You were amazing. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks,” Grog said.

“And thank you for confiding in me.”

“No problem,” Grog murmured.

“Perhaps we should both try to get some sleep,” Shaun said. “It’s getting _very_ late, and you, my friend, are still a little drunk.”

…

The next morning, Shaun woke up late. It seemed bright enough to be noon beyond his curtains, so he was clear-headed and well-rested, caught up on the sleep he’d missed.

He stretched, cat-like, and was pleased to find no headache, no queasiness, no signs of a hang-over. That made sense—on the heels of being poisoned, he’d gone easy on the alcohol—but he almost regretted the sensible choice. Because he’d had to spend so much of the night avoiding his own thoughts through other means.

His mind, of course, kept trying to come back to Vax’ildan.

Seeing Vax’s strange spirit form appear during the ceremony had been jarring. Shaun hadn’t _wanted_ to interact with that version of him. He hadn’t even wanted a mention. Yet it still felt quite strange to be an observer during the whole emotional ordeal.

_A process, _Shaun reminded himself. _Healing is a process. _

He’d spent the rest of the night helping with odd jobs in-between enjoying the party, getting back to work whenever he was unable to stop his thoughts from racing. And once he’d returned to his room, he’d barely been able to sleep. Hence the walk in the early morning hours.

Shaun was thankful he’d run into Grog. Their heart-to-heart had totally distracted him. And once he’d ended up back in his room, it had been much easier to drift off.

Now, Shaun swung out of bed, sliding his batik coat on top of his pyjamas. It was already dry; sometimes he missed the Marquet climate. Normally, on a vacation like this, he would begin the day with a cup of tea. Yet something else lingered in his thoughts—the memory of Grog Strongjaw, all drunk and vulnerable, brooding beneath the moonlit sky.

He went to rustle through his bag, looking for a few vials he knew he must have packed. They contained the nearly complete components to make a simple hang-over draught. It was a smoother way to deliver lesser restoration and help remove lingering intoxication.

After pouring it into a goblet, Shaun wandered through the halls, looking for Grog’s room. He wasn’t entirely sure of the number, because his huge friend had insisted on climbing back through his window to get inside.

Eventually, he tracked down a door that seemed to match location well enough, and knocked as softly as he could.

The door sprung open, Pike peering up at him.

“Oh, hello Shaun,” she said.

“Sorry,” Shaun said. “I was looking for Grog?”

“He’s next door!’ She pointed.

“Right. Sorry, Pike.” Shaun suddenly felt embarrassed. He wiggled the goblet in his hand. “I was just bringing him a hangover cure.”

“That’s so nice of you,” Pike said. “Man, I should have thought to check on him. He had a lot last night, huh?”

“Yeah. He was sobering up by the time he went to bed. But still.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Pike said. “I better go see if Scanlan and Kaylie need anything similar.”

And she ducked off down the hall without so much as a judgemental glance. Not even a single moment of confusion. Shaun made himself relax. It wasn’t like he was doing something illegal. He knocked on Grog’s door.

Inside, there was a thump, a groan, and a confused mumble. He took that as a cue to enter.

“Um, Grog?” he called. “It’s me.”

The room was mostly dark, but the curtains were parted, giving the place a soft glow. Grog lay in the centre of the plush hotel bed, sprawled out on his stomach, sheets tangled over his lower half. His head rolled toward the door, sleepy eyes squinting.

“Who’s it?” he asked.

The muscles of his back were illuminated in a shaft of light, dark tattoo vivid against skin of gentle grey. Objectively lovely.

“It’s Shaun again. I thought I would bring you something for your hangover.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you,” Grog croaked, and it was clear his throat was dry. “M’ head’s killing me.”

He rolled to the side, sitting up a bit. The sheet drifted as he did so, revealing an entirely unclothed hip and a solid, muscular thigh, the important bits just _barely_ covered.

Shaun stopped.

“Are you naked?”

“Oh shit,” Grog said. He quickly rearranged his sheet. “Sorry.”

It was, as with all things Grog did, rather charming. Shaun couldn’t help smiling.

“It’s fine. I’ve seen plenty of naked men before,” he assured him, going to sit on the edge of the bed, still balancing the goblet in his hand. “Now, take this. It will help a lot. I promise.”

Grog didn’t hesitate. He apparently had so much faith in Shaun he wouldn’t question what he was given. He reached for the cure, and drank it down without pause, swallowing every gulp.

“You’re allowed to breathe,” Shaun said, but Grog was already done.

He let out a loud sigh, dropping the cup back to his lap.

“Dude, that was good. Was it spicy?”

“Mm, masks the bitterness. Most people don’t like it much, but it tastes even worse without the spice.”

“I like it,” Grog said.

“Good to know.” Shaun smiled softly. “Maybe I’ll give you a supply of your own.”

“Woah.” Grog was beaming. “That’d be awesome.”

“I’ll do it when I get home.”

“How much will it cost?”

“Oh!” Shaun blinked. “I was intending it like a gift.”

“Nah, I know you’ve gotta buy fancy ingredients for shit like that. Pike makes that kind of stuff sometimes. I want to pay you.”

Shaun was touched. “Well, okay. I’ll work out a discount though.”

“Hey, how come you came to give me this anyway?” Grog asked, suddenly looking almost sheepish. “Was I that bad last night?”

“No, not at all,” Shaun said. “You hold your liquor well. I guess I just… felt some sympathy.”

“For my dumb emotional rambling?”

Shaun looked at him sharply.

“It wasn’t dumb. I’m glad you opened up. I meant I felt some sympathy for the morning after a good night of drinking. Besides, I had nothing much to do today.”

“You should come to the beach with us then!” Grog said. “We said we’d go when everyone was up. It’ll be so much fun!”

“Actually, that does sound lovely.”

“And hopefully something exciting happens,” Grog said. “Last time we were here, there was this whole prank thing, and for once, I didn’t get blamed and yelled at. Well… not much.”

“What happened?” Shaun asked, sensing a good story.

Grog gave him a grin, eyes holding an enchanting gleam of mischief.

“It started when we were swimming,” he said, “and Tary had left his armour lying all over the beach. While I was dunking him under the water, Vax noticed an opening…”

He launched into a full story, of Vax stealing the armour, and finding a clever way to shift the blame to Percy. Of Tary’s strange, magically aided retaliation. Of the famed wrath of Lady Vex’ahlia. Of the discovery of the true culprit, and the chase down the beach between bear and rogue, which ended with Vax pinned beneath Trinket, accepting his punishment with peals of laughter.

Lost in the tale—the mad escapades of all these friends Shaun loved so much—he forgot about his grief. In fact, for the first time, he was thinking about Vax without a single touch of sadness.

He threw back his head and laughed, deep and genuine.

“Thank you for the story,” he said. “That was much needed.”

“Really? How come?”

Despite the open expression on Grog’s face, Shaun hesitated.

“I suppose… since you shared something hard with me last night, I could tell you something too.”

Grog stilled. “I’m listening.”

“I found it hard, seeing Vax at the ceremony,” Shaun admitted. “I _was_ in love with him, and even though I’m getting over it, I do miss him… I think I miss him more than I should.”

“You’re allowed to miss him,” Grog said, as though the concept of Shaun feeling guilty left him utterly confused. “I mean, he loved Keyleth, but he loved you too, right?”

“I guess.”

Grog frowned. He seemed genuinely annoyed.

“I never liked the way he handled that.”

Shaun was shocked. He hadn’t expected Grog to have an opinion on the matter, especially one so strong and defensive. To be honest, he hadn’t expected Grog was paying much attention.

“Well, we’re all flawed, right?” Shaun said. “I don’t blame Vax.”

“That’s just- that’s because you’re such a good person.”

“I’m really not that—"

“Shaun.” The name was said haltingly, with strange care. “You’re a good person.”

“Well, thank you, Grog,” he said. “And it’s okay, really. I am getting over it. I’ll be okay.”

“Good.”

“I really just wanted to thank you,” Shaun finished. “I’m glad you told me that story. It makes me remember how… mortal Vax was. It makes me remember the good things. Actually, it was the first time I forget my grief entirely.”

Grog had been staring at his face. Now he quickly looked away. If Shaun didn’t know better, he would have thought his friend was blushing.

“You’re welcome then,” Grog said. “I have lots of stupid stories about Vax, if you ever want to hear another.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Shaun laughed. “But first, shall we go rustle up the others for the beach?”

…

In the months that followed the wedding, Grog saw Shaun a lot, orbiting around him in the new pattern of life that had begun after the defeat of Vecna.

Sometimes, they simply crossed ways by chance; Shaun might be clearing out his damaged premises in Westruun at the same time Grog went to visit Grandpa Wilhand; they might both take a trip to Whitestone on the same afternoon. Other times, things were more deliberate. They still gathered for tea with their other friends, keeping up the new tradition.

One day, Vox Machina received word from the Greyskull Keep foundation. The orphanage had been open for almost a year now, and they were planning an anniversary celebration, inviting their adventuring benefactors to join.

Grog, Pike, and Scanlan all travelled down early. They helped set up the party, and took a few weeks holiday in Emon. While they were there, they spent many an evening with Shaun, Kima, and Allura. They explored the re-growing city together, sharing their favourite taverns, both old and new.

“You’ve already been to my top favourite spot,” Shaun said one evening. “So how about somewhere new? There’s a little cocktail bar that just popped up in the temple district, with their drinks named after the gods. I think some of the authorities weren’t too happy, but Kima said she liked the concept.”

“So do I!” Pike said. “Let’s go there!”

The bar turned out to be right on the edge of the district, the front counter set into the outer wall, with its barkeep standing in a sheltered space about four feet wide, shelves stacked around her.

“What’ll it be?” she asked them.

She had a vivid kind of smile, her sharp lower teeth stark enough to hint at orcish ancestry, her hair a wild mane of black. Her arms were scarred, muscles standing out as she scrubbed down her countertop.

“I’ll take one Everlight Bright please!” Pike said, reading the menu scrawled in chalk over the wall above, and slapping her coin down without needing to be asked.

The barkeep looked down at her holy symbol and nodded.

“Glad to see some of you have a sense of humour,” she said. “One Everlight Bright coming up.”

And she shot a smirk over their shoulders. Grog followed her gaze and found a guy in priestly robes watching them with distain. He must have been posted to keep an eye on the place.

“You’re brave, opening up here,” Scanlan said. “Seems like they’ll shut you down soon.”

“Well, I started in Vasselheim, if you want to talk bravery,” the barkeep said with another grin. “But they _definitely_ don’t take kindly to anyone having fun with the gods, no matter how much they like their alcohol. So I had to move. Thought it’d be tamer here.”

“Admirable,” Scanlan said, and he elbowed Grog in the leg.

Grog ignored it. He was trying to read the menu, sounding out the words under his breath. Everyone else placed their orders. Scanlan chose to forgo his own god’s beverage in favour of the stronger yet fruitier Pelor Sunrise. Allura walked off with a delicate stemmed Lady Weaver, while Kima decided on the Bahamut Blast, which was served ostentatiously on a tray of hot coals.

“Oh!” Grog said cheerfully, spotting something. “I’ll have a Kord on the Rocks.”

“I bet you will, big guy,” the barkeep said, voice suddenly a little more sultry, leaning over the counter to take his money straight from his hand. “You know, I’ve seen you fight.”

“You have?”

“Back in Vasselheim. The Crucible.”

“Yeah?”

“You are remarkable,” her eyes skirted his body. “If you ever want to take a different sort of tumble, I hope you let me know before I’m forced to leave the city.”

Grog didn’t really go for metaphors, but he was pretty sure he knew what she was asking. He felt rather dumb founded. It was a great offer, honestly. But still… he had intended to spend the evening with his friends.

“Sorry,” he said. “I- not tonight. I’m with…”

He gestured back toward the table where the rest were sitting.

“Of course,” she accepted it easily. “Let me get your drink.”

Grog took the tall glass of amber liquid and ice, with a tiny curl of citrus rind on top.

“Thanks,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders, and when she turned to set her shop back in order, he thought she seemed a little disappointed. With a guilty wince, he went to his table.

“So, you taking her home tonight?” Scanlan asked immediately.

“Yeah, she’s cute,” said Allura.

Grog realised every person at the table, other than Shaun, was into women. For some reason, it made him feel even more embarrassed about turning down someone so attractive.

“Very much your type,” Pike agreed.

Grog kept his eyes on his drink as he sat down. The seats and tables were a little makeshift, rickety enough that he worried his immense size might threaten to break them.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Really?” Kima said. “She looked like she was into you.”

“Nah, she didn’t say anything.”

“Are you sure?” Scanlan prodded. “You weren’t just missing signals?”

Grog frowned at him.

“No. I wasn’t.”

“When _was_ the last time you fucked someone?” Scanlan asked. “If I remember correctly, you didn’t even take a girl to your room after the wedding.”

“No, I think he went to someone else’s room,” Pike said, trying to defend her bestie. “I went to ask if he had any water before I went to sleep, but he was gone. Right, Grog?”

“I didn’t go to someone’s room,” Grog said. “I went for a walk.”

Scanlan looked so surprised, he wished he’d lied.

“Seriously?”

Grog glanced at Shaun, and found those brown eyes already resting on him. Instantly, embarrassment began to trickle through his veins. He didn’t understand where that was coming from.

“Yeah, seriously. Anyway, I could’ve been having sex with tons of people since then. You wouldn’t know.”

“I guess,” Scanlan said, oblivious to his level of annoyance. “It’s just that you normally tell me.”

“Well I don’t have to!” Grog snapped.

As Scanlan opened his mouth to say something else, he was interrupted.

“Scanlan,” Pike said sweetly. “Leave him alone, okay?”

Scanlan glanced at her. He seemed to read something in her face. He let it go.

Grog was worried that he’d made things too awkward. He took a quick gulp from his glass. With the burn of liquor in his throat, he tried to think of something new to say, to break the tension.

“Anyway, the bar lady was just asking me if I used to fight in Vasselheim. She’d seen me there before, in the Crucible.”

And thankfully, Kima lurched up in her seat, slamming her hands on the table.

“That reminds me!” she cried. “There’s a new sparring ring in the city! We _have_ to go!”

Grog, very glad for a distraction, agreed immediately.

They went the next morning, and then a couple more times in the week that followed. Pike, Kima, and Grog were all participating. The other three chose to watch from the stands, not really in the mood. And since Allura was cheering for her wife, and Scanlan for Pike, Shaun seemed to think Grog was owed a little extra support.

“You got this, big guy!” His voice, heavy with the kind of charisma that made other folk fall silent, echoed from the stands. “Take them out!”

As Grog ran into the ring, he turned toward the audience. The source of the shouting, dressed as he was in bright purple and gold, wasn’t hard to locate. Grog raised a thumbs up in his direction, the way some fighters would blow a kiss toward a sweetheart.

But in the end, Shaun’s presence proved more of a distraction than anything.

Grog lost the first fight when he caught sight of Shaun in his periphery, leaning out over the barrier, looking messy, top unbuttoned and hair dishevelled, yelling Grog’s name at the top of his lungs.

For some reason, he remembered Vex lifting her shift up to try and motivate him with the sight of her brilliant boobs.

When his opponent swung a kick at the side of his neck, and pinned him to the ground, his face was flushed, and his stomach rather jittery. It was all downhill from there. He joined six different matches across the week, and he lost every single one of them. Including a rather humiliating defeat at the hands of Lady Kima.

“What _happened, _Grog?” Pike asked him after it was all over.

They were recovering in Kima and Allura’s new sitting room, among cosy chairs, surrounded by stacks of books, fire stoked in the hearth. Shaun had brewed some sort of herbal tea, which was slowly loosening Grog’s sore muscles.

“You’ve defeated a god, man,” said Scanlan.

Grog tried to think of an excuse.

“Yeah, well, isn’t that unfair to my opponents?” he asked, playing at superiority, sticking his nose in the air. “I wasn’t gonna go at them with full strength like you all. _I _was being thoughtful and kind. Holding back.”

Though he’d never been the best liar, it seemed that everyone believed him. After all, what other explanation would make sense?

“Well, in that case, your restraint is admirable,” Kima said, tone implying that she didn’t give a damn about being that restrained. “Me, on the other hand… did you see that last tackle?”

And they began to dissect the different matches, Grog’s embarrassing string of failures cast aside for tales of the girls’ glory.

The next day, it was time for the anniversary party. The rest of Vox Machina travelled in to join.

Greyskull Keep was suddenly full of children: both guests and residents. Grog spent a long time running around the garden with them, while they chased hot on his heels, yelling their throats hoarse and trying to catch him. When they started getting tired, he flopped down to sit on the ground, and they clambered over him, treating him like a playground.

He let out a big belly laugh as one girl scrambled to the top of his shoulders and began to chant a teasing rhyme at all the others. Then he caught sight of Shaun, standing with one of the new dorm mothers. They’d broken off their conversation, laughing at the children.

When Shaun saw Grog looking, he winked, and mouthed something.

“_They love you_.”

Grog grinned and returned to his game.

That night, when he lay in bed, trying to sleep, his thoughts kept drifting back to Shaun. He must have had a million images buried in his mind—threaded through his memories.

There was Shaun by the Bay of Gifts, his dark skin reflecting the silver light of the moons, his hair a loose cascade just past his wide shoulders. There was Shaun the first time Grog ever saw him, standing in his remarkable shop, spreading his arms wide and lighting the room with his smile. There was Shaun, looking bashful, hiding the stunning purple mark that had appeared in the centre of his forehead. Shaun, surrounded by friends laughing at a joke he told. Shaun, whipping up a delicious meal with magic. Shaun, in Grog’s dim bedroom, confessing that he missed Vax. Shaun, Shaun, Shaun, Shaun.

Grog opened his eyes. He went to the window to look at the moon again. Just one tonight. Shadowed half-way.

He thought of Shaun, weakened by Thordak’s attack, gathering his last strength for a grand display of magic, scaring off thieves in an alleyway—falling into Grog’s arms. He thought of Shaun running into battle in front of him, and the irresistible urge to smack his ass. He thought of Shaun touching his back tattoo. Touching his bare chest to brush sand away.

He remembered seeing Vax, on tip toes, kissing Shaun on the mouth.

Grog’s arms had been folded on the windowsill. Now his grip tightened, nails digging into his own skin, in some subconscious display of annoyance. He forced the muscles to relax. For the first time, he wondered _why_ the thing with Vax had bothered him so much. It went beyond the simple frustration of a friend who thought Vax was making a bad choice. It was an emotion closer to… discomfort.

For a second, Grog wondered if the idea of two men together was really what disturbed him. There weren’t many cultures who held the unnatural idea that love was limited by gender, but he knew there were some. Such as the noble circle Tary’s father had been running with in Wildemount. Or the cult of odd reclusive halflings he’d met once in the hills, obsessed with the idea of breeding.

Yet how could Grog have been affected by those ideas? His own upbringing had included same gender relationships. He hadn’t been taught that such things were wrong. Only that they were serious. Full of pressure.

Only that they had to consume his entire life and tie him to the herd eternally.

Grog’s breathing came a little harder. He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to banish images of Shaun. He curled back into bed. And at last, he managed to drift off to sleep.

…

Shaun had finished re-establishing Gilmore’s Glorious Goods in Emon. He was stunned by the uptake in business. It seemed, now that his name was so well known, tied in with the heroes of the land, with important public figures seeking his advice and wearing his official items, people were more inclined to seek him out. They trusted his brand.

He was now looking at proper expansion again, frequently teleporting to Whitestone and Westruun to work on his satellite stores.

He saw all of his friends as much as he could. They met for tea, or went out drinking. They went for walks and cooked each other home meals and invented stupid games. They read books in companionable silence. They fussed over Vesper. They travelled around Exandria. They even, occasionally, went on small adventures.

Grog was a regular fixture at many of those social events. Yet Shaun didn’t pay any more attention to his presence than he did to his other friends.

Their bond was deeper than it had been before, of course. The weekend of Vex and Percy’s vow renewal had made sure of that. But Shaun believed himself rather content with the way things were. He liked the fun Grog brought to any group, with uncomplicated pranks and laughter, and sweet smiles in response to any inconsequential flirtatious comments that Shaun might make. He enjoyed their growing closeness.

In short, he was entirely unaware of the gravity he held in Grog’s mind—his magnetic existence, which continued to draw his friend closer and closer, like the tides reaching for the moon.

So he was rather surprised when Allura and Kima brought up the topic over tea and cakes.

“Shaun, can we ask you something?” Allura began.

She was lounging on the couch with Kima, her small wife resting up against her side. Her hair was loose today, her shoes off, her shoulders blissfully free of tension. It was the kind of walls-down state that usually lead either to the most relaxed conversations, or to the most deep and emotional. Shaun gathered this was going the way of the latter option.

“Of course, my dear,” he said, straightening.

“We just noticed some… interesting things lately. And we wondered if…” Allura seemed to be looking for the right words. In the end, Kima blurted it out for her.

“Is there something going on with you and Grog?”

Shaun was, quite honestly, astounded. He set his cup back on his saucer with a clink. A nervous laugh bubbled from his lips.

“Where did this come from?”

Kima and Allura glanced at each other.

“Lately, you seem so close,” Allura explained. “And, honestly, there’s a lot of flirting on both sides. Coupled with the way Grog looks at you…”

Now Shaun really snorted.

“You two, this is ridiculous.” He shook he head. “I mean, we flirt. We always have. Even when Vax and I had something going on, I would flirt with Grog. Call him ‘big guy’ and give him a wink. And it meant nothing! It still means nothing.”

Allura took a breath.

“You don’t think it might mean something to him?”

On the strength of his bond with the two earnest women in front of him, Shaun entertained the idea. For just a moment.

His mind turned back over his interactions with Grog: the light-hearted humour they shared, the unpredictable impulses of his friend, which led to endless fun, and the thrill of being surprised. He thought of the appeal of the tall frame and broad shoulders and oddly soft lips. And he considered the warmth. The ease. The way he felt at peace under Grog’s sincere grey eyes, their regard allowing him to simply _be_—unjudged and unbound.

The fact that, despite being an immense man of strength and skill, Grog still made Shaun feel _needed. _

Instantly, his chest tightened. He rapidly backed away from his spinning thoughts, terrified to let them suck him in too deep. He covered his panic with more laughter.

“Don’t be silly!” he said. “You’re joking, right? You’re joking?”

They didn’t dissolve. Their expressions didn’t shift. A twitch of frustration rose inside him—an easier emotion. He grabbed hold of it.

“You _can’t _mean this.”

“We do!” said Kima. “Look, Shaun, I _know _what Grog’s crushes look like. I used to be on the receiving end. It’s the same bumbly need-to-impress expression he directs at _you_ now.”

“Well, you’re misunderstanding it this time,” Shaun dismissed. “We’re just friends.”

“Do friends let their eyes linger on each other too long and blush when they get caught?” Kima said.

“Please,” Shaun rolled his eyes. “I don’t do that.”

_“Grog _does.”

“He does not.”

“He kind of does,” Allura mumbled.

“And you cannot deny he’s the sort of guy you’re usually into,” Kima said. She waved her mug. “Your ‘cup of tea,” so to speak.”

“That’s not—”

“He’s attractive,” Kima began to list. “He’s totally mischievous and funny. He has that cheeky grin and does those goofy pranks. He’s- dammit, what’s the phrase Vex used? A dumbass with a heart of gold! And he seems to like someone who can take charge in the bedroom, which…”

Shaun decided to stop her there.

“You only want us to get together because we’ve been hanging out with all you couples, and we’re the only single ones.”

“No way!” Kima objected. “Keyleth is single. Sherri is single. Jarret is single! All of them have hung out with us at some point recently. I’m not trying to set Grog up with any of them. I’m not trying to set _you_ up with Jarret.”

“Good. He’s like a younger cousin.”

“Yet you never use familial terms for Grog,” she said smugly.

“Well, he’s—”

Shaun realised he couldn’t think of Grog that way. Like a brother, or a relative of any kind.

“See!” said Kima, like his silence meant something. “And I know you’ve liked people like Vax, who had more of a pretty-boy kind of appeal, but Grog _does _actually have quite a pretty face. I’d never looked at him properly until—"

“Kima,” said Shaun.

“I’m just saying, you must admit there’s some—"

“Kima.”

“—thing there! There is! You’re just being stubborn.”

“Kima, _stop_.” Shaun let his tone take on a rare stern edge. “I’m serious.”

“I just—”

“Darling,” Allura said softly. “Perhaps we _should_ leave it.”

Kima deflated at the word from her wife. She bit her lip, like she knew she’d gone too far. Opened her mouth like she might apologise.

“I don’t mean to be blunt,” Shaun said gently. “It’s just been hard enough for me to get over Vax. If I let myself harbour even a _crush _on Grog, it would be so much worse.”

They exchanged a glance again.

“Worse than- than loving Vax?” Allura asked tentatively.

Shaun considered it.

“Yes. With Vax, everything began as a flirtation. With Grog, we’re already such good friends. It’s a more intense foundation. If I let myself think of him romantically—if I let myself love him—I think it’s a path I couldn’t walk back from. When he inevitably never returned my feelings, it would shatter me, and I’d lose part of the family I’ve found. I can’t do that to myself.”

“But what if he—” Kima began. Allura put a hand on her arm. She stopped.

“He has _never_ indicated he might be attracted to men,” Shaun said. “I flirt with him _because _it’s innocent. It’s safe. There’s no chance he’ll misunderstand. He’s- he’s entirely out of my grasp. It’s not going to happen.”

“We won’t mention it again,” Allura said. “We don’t discuss it unless you bring it up.”

“Thank you.”

And Shaun busied himself refilling their tea.

He did not let himself think about the things his friends had suggested. He ignored the fact that Grog was the only person he knew capable of enveloping him in a hug. He ignored the memories of Grog staring at him with admiration, like he thought Shaun was powerful and wonderful. He ignored the thoughts of what they could become, if it were just the two of them.

Grog would marry a beautiful, strong woman with a radiant laugh, and they would have children together. Shaun would find someone else—someone who wouldn’t make his heart burn with such frightening vulnerability.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thriving on all your comments by the way! Just two chapters left, so get them in while you still can ;))


	9. Empty the Skies Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy... we're getting close to the end. Also,, the chapter count just increased again. I needed to give myself a little more space for the end of this story. AND I realised I would like an epilogue...

Grog began his journey in a cart, under sunny skies, travelling from Westruun toward the mountains. Highsummer was approaching, and his little family was meeting in Zephrah for an early celebration, before those who were leaders of their people had to return to local festivities. The day was pleasantly warm, though not yet overly sweltering. However, when the cart began to climb the steady rise of the mountain…

“Hey, Bells,” he asked, “why’s is so hot up here? I thought it was cool where Keyleth lives?”

His halfling companion turned their face toward the sky. They were an Air Ashari gardener, who (at the request of their leader) had offered to give Grog a ride back to the village. So far, they’d spent most of the journey acting as a tour guide.

“Ah, this time of year is special, my boy.”

“How so?”

“It’s almost Highsummer, and we’re growing a few rare tropical flowers for the celebration. For this next week, all the druids of the Air Ashari are pulling clouds closer for humidity and calling up warm winds to help the plants blossom.”

“Oh, okay,” Grog said.

He removed his last pieces of shoulder armour at they climbed the incline. And then they passed the first houses of the little settlement of Zephrah. Children ran alongside the cart, staring up at Grog with big eyes, and giggling when he waved. Bells let him down before turning off to their own house and pointed the way to Keyleth’s.

Grog was rather charmed by the village as he walked through. Though people stared at him, they were quick to smile and wave as well.

Keyleth’s house was marked by signposts saying, “Voice of the Tempest,” yet it didn’t seem altogether different from the other abodes. He came through thick garden to reach the front door and found it already open. In fact, most of the house was open to the breeze.

“Hello?” he called.

There was no answer, so he began to walk on in. And, as he turned a corner past the entryway, he smacked right into Keyleth.

“Ow,” she groaned, reaching up to set her headdress to rights. “Oh, Grog! Hello!”

And she threw her arms around him.

“Hey, Kiki,” he mumbled, squeezing her so hard she was lifted off her feet for a second. “It’s been ages.”

“It has.” When he put her down, she punched him in the arm. “But it’s good to see you! You’re early! The others don’t arrive ‘til noon.”

“Am I? We just left at first light.”

And then Keyleth smacked a palm to her forehead.

“Oh, shit, I’m distracted again. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go sort something out in town. We’re growing these really delicate plants for Highsummer and there’s been some issue I have to solve. Official tempest duties and all that. But you can wait here, okay? Go out through that door, and head into the garden. It’s far too nice to be stuck inside all day.”

“Okay,” Grog said.

Keyleth began to leave, but she halted again.

“Oh, and Shaun’s already out there! He’s cooking lunch! You can help if you want!”

Before Grog could respond, she was rushing off, scooping up her staff from the doorway as she went. Suddenly, his heart was beating rather fast. He walked toward the garden.

Sure enough, Shaun Gilmore was standing under the pleasant shelter of some shady trees, bent over a table in an outdoor Ashari kitchen, preparing food. Grog was instantly immobilised.

Shaun had cast aside his shirt in the heat, and instead of his usual layers of silk and scarves and coats and vests, carefully selected in a cheerful array of colour, he wore only a long sarong of deep purple, looped elegantly at his waist. His hair was tied up even higher than usual, keeping it well away from his neck, and his rings had been removed while he worked. It was an unusually casual look—an expression of comfort and practicality.

And as dear and long-lasting as their friendship was, Grog had never seen the other man shirtless before. It was sort of captivating.

Shaun was, indeed, as full-figured and entirely perfect as he appeared to be while clothed. And Grog had always been fascinated by body hair; his own thick brows and lashes had been his pride among the hairless goliaths, and now his beard was an extra point of vanity. But Shaun… Shaun’s chest and arms were thatched with thick curly hair that seemed luxuriously soft, vanishing in a trail below his sarong.

Grog wanted to touch him. He squeezed his hands together instead.

The table in the outdoor kitchen was cluttered with indigents at one end, while the other had been cleared out entirely and dusted with a light coating of flour. On this surface, Shaun was kneading a large, supple ball of dough. His arms tensed and released, showing off surprising strength and unsurprising technical expertise.

“Hi Shaun,” Grog said at last, flinching at the sound of his own voice, which was _much _higher than usual.

Shaun looked up in surprise, pausing his work. A tendril of hair had fallen into his face. His brown eyes were wide for a second. Then he grinned.

“Grog! Welcome!” he called. “Come over here! I’d give you a hug, but as you can see…”

He lifted both hands, covered in flour and flecks of dough. Grog laughed, and his legs managed to carry him forward into the shaded kitchen area. There was a little wooden chair in front of the table, possibly the seat Keyleth had just vacated, so he sat down.

“Sorry,” Shaun said. “Keyleth just left. She had some business—”

“I know, I ran into her.”

“Oh, good.” He seemed surprised. “I thought you wouldn’t have caught her. She’s been gone at least five minutes.”

Grog wondered how long, exactly, he’d been standing there watching Shaun work.

“Nah, I saw her. Anyway, what’re you making?”

Shaun smiled softer this time.

“Well there are curries and things cooking over there, and I’ll be grilling meat soon. But this is a kind of Marquesian flatbread that my parents used to make. I figured if I’m in charge of cooking a full feast for our friends, I’ll go with something I’m good at.”

“Sounds yum,” Grog said.

“I hope so.”

Shaun returned to his kneading. Grog leaned his elbows on the table and talked a little about his journey up from Westruun, but his story was scattered, because he was watching Shaun’s hands up close. Once again, he noticed their sturdiness, with broad palms and thick fingers massaging the dough into submission. Large, hardy knuckles contrasted the delicate softness of dark brown skin. They were the hands of a merchant, yet with the undoubted heft of someone unafraid to get to work.

And Shaun was moving in such quick, limber twists and tugs, with skill and utter competence. In moments, Grog started to feel dizzy.

“Do you… need any help?” he asked.

Shaun’s eyes lit up.

“Actually, that would be wonderful.” He nodded off to the side. “I’ve got one batch over there I need to start shaping.”

Grog glanced at the ingredients on the other end of the table—a basket of spices, meat wrapped in waxed paper, sheaves of herbs tied up with string, peeled vegetables soaking in a bucket of water, and a smooth ceramic bowl with a glass lid, in which another ball of dough was resting. It was the dough that Shaun seemed to be referring to.

“You can wash your hands in the spring behind me,” Shaun said. “Then can you fetch me the dough?”

Grog did as he was asked. He liked the feel of it in his hands, so warm and pliant.

“How do I…?” he was nervous.

“I’ll show you,” Shaun said.

He patted the space beside him, where there was still enough room for Grog to work, and Grog dropped his ball of dough onto the table, sending up a puff of flour.

“So,” Shaun explained. “What I do is I mix all the ingredients, then knead them together, like what you saw me doing now.” He lifted up the section he’d been working on. “Then once it feels right, I leave it to rise for a while.”

He dumped his ball of dough into the bowl that was now empty, easing the cover back over the top.

“It’ll come out fluffy and soft.”

“So this one’s already risen?” Grog asked, poking the dough he’d just collected.

“Yes, that one I made earlier. I had to go in two rounds, because we have so many people coming.” Shaun smiled. “And I figure some of you eat a lot.”

He was clearly talking about Grog, who gave a sheepish shrug in response.

“Now, my strong man, I’m afraid you’ve arrived for the gentler part,” Shaun said. “First, split that dough in half, and give me some. We’ll work through our pieces together.”

Grog divided it as best he could, and watched carefully as Shaun showed him how to remove a smaller ball of dough from the larger one, measuring it evenly in his hand, so it was the right size for a single flatbread. Then he demonstrated how he would lay it against the table, and work it into a lovely rounded shape, achieving proper, even thickness.

“Now, you try,” he encouraged.

Grog swallowed. He tore off a piece of dough, spending far too long checking its size, and then he smushed his hands into it, trying to fold and turn like Shaun had shown him. But the movements seemed clumsy and unrefined.

He crumpled it and started over. For a second time, he failed.

“Oops,” he said. “I- I don’t know if I’m—"

“It’s okay,” Shaun said. “Try it more like this…”

And all at once, he stepped up against Grog’s side, so close that his bare skin radiated heat. He wasn’t tall enough to envelop a goliath from behind, but he laid his left hand on Grog’s back to stabilise himself, and then settled his right hand over the top of Grog’s own, the lengths of their arms pressed together.

For a second, Grog didn’t breathe. Shaun gently, carefully, guided him through the next movement, the forward lean causing a tickle of hair and warmth as Shaun’s chest brushed against him.

“Very good,” Shaun murmured, voice rumbling between their bodies.

And a very familiar sensation trickled down Grog’s spine. A tremble of _need _and _desire _settled in. Heat pooled low in his belly.

He coughed, adjusted his pose, and quickly tried to pick up the movement of flattening the dough. He trained his eyes desperately on his work, shoving aside all thoughts of closeness from his mind, before they could go anywhere—before he pictured what it would be like to turn around and offer his lips. Before he imagined twining those fingers with his own. Pressing his body against Shaun.

Before his imagination caused any noticeable reactions below the waistline.

Thankfully, it seemed to work. Shaun’s fingers retracted. Though he remained in Grog’s space, left hand still burning a brand on Grog’s shoulder, he no longer tried to guide him directly.

“See, you picked it up fast. I knew you would. You’re very clever with things like this.”

Grog tightened his jaw. His entire face felt like it was on fire.

“Yup,” he said, hoping his tone of voice wasn’t too strangled. “I’m very smart.”

Shaun laughed. He hovered there a while, watching. And then, just as things were settling into a good rhythm, he twitched violently. And gasped.

Immediately, Grog was on alert, hands clenching to fists, looking up. He saw exactly what Shaun must have seen. Keyleth was back, silent as a shadow. She was standing in the archway that lead into her house, leaned up against the frame, watching them with curious eyes and the slightest smile.

“Keyleth, what a fright you gave me!” Shaun said, stepping out of Grog’s space. “Why are you standing there like a spectre? Come, tell us how it went.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

For some reason, she was smirking. Grog saw a brief frown dance over Shaun’s face. He wondered if both of them had _noticed _how overwhelmed he’d been. He wondered if they could hear his heartbeat.

“I, uh,” Grog said. “I need… to go. Where’s the bathroom, Keyleth?”

Keyleth raised her eyebrows at him.

“Head to the other end of the garden and turn toward the house.”

“Right, thanks,” Grog said. “I’m just peeing. By the way.”

“Thanks for sharing?” Keyleth said.

And Grog walked off, forcing himself to slow his pace so that no one would think he was running to take a shit.

When he got to the little outhouse, he shut the door, sat on the wooden toilet seat, and tried to breathe. His mind was a jumble. He’d been so confused, this whole time, about what he was feeling for Shaun. Wondering if his discomfort over Shaun and Vax was due to them both being men. Letting all his emotions pass by under his nose like they were no more than the simple affections of friendship. He’d told himself that was all they _could _be, because he’d never looked at a man that way before.

Or never let himself.

Grog buried his face in his hands. Because _that, _out there, had been unmistakable. He knew that feeling very well. He knew arousal and attraction.

To feel such things for Shaun? He was surprised. And yet, the sensation had been so completely natural that he wondered if he’d been feeling it the whole time, in some underlying, insidious way. It might have been buried, but it was still there. It might feel new, but it also felt right.

_Makes things complicated though, _he thought. He lifted his face out of his hands, and forced a deep inhale. Exhale. _Because now I have to work out what to do._

The answer come to him quickly—Pike! He would talk to Pike.

But all their other friends would be arriving soon. They would spend the whole day celebrating, and Shaun would be with them, so it wasn’t like Grog could dissect this with Pike right away. They wouldn’t have enough space for the painful, difficult activity of pulling apart his thoughts and making sense of them.

He considered staying where he was until everyone arrived though, avoiding seeing Shaun and Keyleth, with her smirking face. Just in case she might have noticed something.

But then he remembered that Shaun needed help cooking. And in the end, there was no better motivator than saving his friend (his crush?) from doing all the hard work alone. He shook out his muscles, tried to relax, to put aside his bewilderment. Then he went out to endure the rest of the day.

_Besides_, he thought to himself, _I may as well enjoy the view…_

…

Shaun was feeling rather hot. Granted, it was a pretty warm day, but he knew, in his heart of hearts, that his current state went a little beyond the weather. It was the sort of crawling, embarrassed, fluttery heat of someone who had been caught doing what they shouldn’t.

Yet, he had nothing to apologise for. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Perhaps he’d gone a little far, drawing Grog so close to his body, guiding his hand so intimately, hovering at his side even when he knew his friend was getting the hang of the job. Yet how could he resist?

Grog had arrived, shirtless and handsome as always, but unarmoured, and therefore, somehow, with a greater appearance of vulnerability. His beard had been gently curling in the humid air. His grey eyes reflected summer, under a blue sky misted with thin-spread clouds. He’d had just the faintest gleam of sweat over his muscles, highlighting his scars. And he’d offered to help with the cooking so sweetly. He’d looked so nervous—so worried he might get something wrong.

Shaun’s only thought had been to comfort that. It was just a natural response. A protective instinct.

A… desire to get closer.

Dammit, he was going to kill Kima and Allura next time he saw them. It was as if the conversation with them had opened up a hidden gate in his brain, despite every effort he’d made to keep it shut. And now his subconscious was openly pointing out all the appealing things that Grog Strongjaw had to offer.

He didn’t want to go there.

He also didn’t want to deal with Keyleth, who had resumed her seat, and was staring at him, elbows on the table, hands innocently cupping her face.

“So, what was that about?” she asked.

Shaun feigned a casual confusion with ease.

“What was what about, dear?”

“That!” She gestured with too much enthusiasm at the place where Grog had vanished, and almost knocked a bundle of herbs off the table. “Grog and you! You and Grog!”

Shaun resisted the urge to shush her, hoping their friend was out of earshot by now.

“We were making flatbreads,” he said evenly. “Grog wanted to help. I assume I’m allowed to ask for help? This is a rather big task…”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” Keyleth scoffed. “I mean the, you know, the touching.”

She was wiggling her face muscles in what was probably meant to be a suggestive expression. Somehow, it came across as endearing. Shaun tried hard not to smile. He wondered how much touching she’d actually seen.

“I was just showing him what to do.”

“Why was he so pink then?”

“He was pink?” Shaun said. “Probably the heat.”

“Of your body.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Of the day!”

“You know,” said Keyleth. “This is not the first time I noticed something.”

“Oh, not you too,” Shaun groaned.

It was a mistake. Keyleth lurched upright, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“_Who else brought this up?” _she asked. “Because I talked to Vex, but she said she hadn’t talked to you yet.”

“Vex thinks—?” Shaun huffed. “Gods, you’re all insufferable.”

“Who was it?” Keyleth asked.

He debated refusing to tell her. He debated banishing her from her own kitchen.

“Kima and Allura,” he said, giving in, “were under the rather foolish impression that something might happen between Grog and I. Even more ridiculously, they believed _Grog _might be harbouring feelings for me. Which you and I both know is impossible.”

Keyleth scrunched her nose up.

“_Do_ we know that?”

“He isn’t attracted to men!” Shaun said.

He tore off a new piece of dough with a little extra aggression and started to mould it.

“Well…”

“Kiki, I swear, if you start saying there’s a chance Grog could be into me, I will…”

“Okay, okay.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I won’t say anything else. But I don’t think I’ve seen Grog blush like that for many people. And also, now I think about it, I don’t think it’s impossible to assume he might like men. There are potential…”

“You just said you wouldn’t say anything else, and then you kept talking.”

“That’s what I do! You should know that by now,” she teased. “I just… _I_ can’t even imagine standing so close to Grog and touching him so intimately. And I don’t think you would’ve done it a couple years ago. There’s something different between you guys.”

Shaun levelled her with his most intense stare. “Keyleth, Grog will be back any second. I will explain to you, after this party, why I refuse to even consider the option. And I guess _Vex _will have to be included in that conversation, now I know she’s thinking this too. I’ll tell you exactly what I told the others. And then you can let it go forever.”

“Fine,” Keyleth said. “I will let it go… until I know for sure that Grog likes you.”

“Not what I said!” Shaun protested.

“It’s the best deal I can offer right now. Anyway, tell me what I can do to help you make lunch!”

Shaun didn’t offer to teach her flatbreads. He set her up chopping onions at the other end of the table.

It was only later, after Grog returned, and they finished shaping all the dough together, that Shaun wondered why he’d let Grog learn the most special part of the cooking process—the part that belonged to childhood memories and lived in the deepest places of his heart.

While they were leaning over the traditional pit oven, pinching the flatbreads one at a time to lower them onto hot rocks, he forced his hands to stay away from his friend’s body. He forced his eyes not to dart to Keyleth like a guilty man, checking if she was watching. He tried really hard not to display a full crinkle-eyed smile when Grog got overly excited to see bubbles forming on the dough.

And he wondered, with a great deal more concern, if something _had _changed between him and Grog.

He really hoped the change wasn’t what he suspected: a new, unrequited crush on his part, clawing its way to the surface of his thoughts. Tender feelings that might grow into longing, and longing that might grow into loneliness. A misguided placement of hope that would break his heart all over again. Like a man addicted to agony.

…

Grog managed to behave quite normally for the entire journey back to Vasselheim with Pike and Scanlan—through the teleportation and the travel by foot. He managed to wait, in torment, for his friends to stumble into the house and put away their Highsummer gifts and travel-wear. He managed to smile and nod as Scanlan slowly wandered off to meet Kaylie, who was performing in a tavern down the road.

The moment the front door shut behind him, however, Grog lost all semblance of control.

“Pike! I need to talk to you!” he gasped, words so quick they jumbled together.

Pike had been stoking the fire. But she turned around, startled by his tone of voice, abandoning her task immediately.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” she asked, standing.

But, with her eyes on him, it was harder to speak.

“Umm.” Grog scrunched up his face, trying to work out where to begin. “Uh…”

“Are you in danger?” Pike said. She came to sit beside him at the table, scanning his face. “Did you find another talking weapon?”

“No! I’m fine. I- I just need some advice.”

Her shoulders loosened.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m here to help.”

Grog wriggled in his seat.

“Do you…” he began. “Do you think…”

He paused. Shook his head. Let out a little uncomfortable whine. It was so hard to say.

“Do I think what, Grog?”

He took a deep breath, and let the words rush out at once.

“Do you think I could be attracted to men?”

Pike’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Her eyes went wide. But the expression was instantly followed by a smile, fond and full of affection.

“I think you could be,” she said carefully, thoughtfully. “But, Grog, the answer to that lies in what you feel, not what other people think. Not even what _I _think.”

He sighed,

“I think I am,” he mumbled. “After today, I- I think I know I am.”

“Okay,” Pike said.

Grog pressed his hands against his hot cheeks. His heart was beating so fast; saying it out loud made it feel like it was real.

“Grog?” Pike said. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I’m freaking out about it.”

“Don’t be sorry!” she scolded. “And Grog? I figured we’d have this conversation one day.”

“What?” A little tension slipped away. He needed Pike to _know_ him. It was important, and reassuring, to find out she really did. “But you looked so surprised!”

“I just didn’t expect you to bring it up _now_.”

“But how did you know?”

She was careful with her answer. “I’ve been your best friend since we were teenagers. You’ve seemed… interested in men before.”

Grog thought about it.

Suddenly, a thousand things unfolded before him. A flood of memories, lost or twisted and repressed, rattled through his head.

He remembered Zef, his sparring partner in the herd, and how much he’d wanted to kiss him. He remembered several boys, throughout his teenage years in Westruun. And Kern, tangled with him in the crucible, then standing outside that tavern, as bashful and awkward as an ex-lover. Or Lionel, so perfectly friendly and tall and handsome, smiling his brightest smile, leaving Grog overwhelmed by conflicting emotion. Arkhan, the bold, tough warrior, who he’d so desperately wanted to bond with.

Every one of them, on some level, had been attractive to Grog. Many had even appealed in ways that directly matched the crushes he’d had on women. To the point where he wasn’t sure how he’d been so dense.

His mind contrasted Merag, and his first kiss, with Zef’s competitive spirit: Trish the Dish, and her bulging biceps, with Kern’s thick arms: the goliath woman he’d seen playing the drums in the Grumpy Lily, compared with the many attractive men he’d spotted in other taverns, whose faces were still imprinted in his mind, for reasons he’d never been able to discern before.

“Shit. You’re right.”

He went over them with Pike. She was patient and sweet and so genuinely excited that it made Grog’s heart feel a little lighter too. Though she seemed to be waiting for him to say something more.

He decided he should probably tell her about Shaun. But before he could get there, the front door swung open, and they heard Scanlan pulling off his shoes in the entryway.

“Crap, Scanlan’s home,” Pike whispered.

“It’s okay,” Grog said. “We can keep talking. I want him to know. I just wanted to tell you first.”

Pike smiled softly.

“Well, thank you, buddy. I’m touched.”

“Hey guys?” Scanlan yelled.

“Yeah?”

“Kaylie isn’t actually on for another half hour. She said I should come ask if you want to watch too. Apparently they’re gonna do Grog’s favourite song tonight.”

“Oh, well, we might be able to come,” Pike answered. “We’re just… having kind of an important chat first. You can join if you want, before you have to leave again.”

“Just a sec,” Scanlan answered. They heard him hurrying faster.

“Do you really want to tell him right now?” Pike whispered.

“Yeah, now.” But once again, Grog was _very_ nervous. “Shit, though, it feels scary. Can you tell him?”

“Are you sure?”

Scanlan’s footsteps began to patter down the hallway.

“Yup, yeah,” Grog said, certain now that he couldn’t get up the courage to say everything again. “You gotta do it for me.”

And as Scanlan walked in the door, he buried his face in his hands.

“Is Grog okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s just blushing. Sit down, sweetie.”

And Grog remained where he was, covering his face, while Pike explained everything to Scanlan. She did well—the only person he’d trust to put his feelings into words.

Once most of it was done, Grog found enough courage to peek between his fingers. Thankfully, Scanlan didn’t look surprised at all. Perhaps because he was into men as well, so he got it. Perhaps simply because he was such a passionate supporter of positive attitudes to sex, and would never have judged his best friend.

“Wow,” Scanlan said, with a strangely sincere expression that he wore very rarely. “Thanks for telling me, Grog. Or, Grog-via-Pike.”

“No problem,” Grog mumbled.

“I never would have guessed,” Scanlan admitted. “But it makes sense, now I hear it.”

“Yeah?” Grog said.

He lowered his hands from his face, feeling relieved. He would hate to think _everyone _had known, and he was the thick one who couldn’t work it out. Yet he would also hate it to be shocking news.

“Yeah!” Scanlan said. “Man, _so _many guys check you out, Grog. It’ll be awesome to give them a positive answer when they ask if you’re down. If that’s what you want…”

Grog considered it. On one hand, it was thrilling. But he also wondered if he was discovering this at the wrong stage, right when all his dreams and desires seemed to be focusing in on a single individual.

“That sounds cool,” he said. “Except, I—”

He stopped himself. He couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Pike said, for what felt like the millionth time that evening.

“I want to tell you!” Grog said. “I just _can’t. _It’s so… embarrassing.”

And he dropped his face into his folded arms, which were resting on the table.

There was a long pause, while he sat there, hunched, staring at the black shadows under his elbows and the grain in the wood. Pike’s gentle hand came up to rest on his bicep.

“Is this about Shaun?” she asked.

Grog sat up straight and gaped at her.

“How’d you know?”

She laughed. Scanlan was staring at her too, bug-eyed. Clearly, it wouldn’t have crossed his mind.

“Well,” Pike said. “This seems to be a sudden realisation, and the only other guys we hung out with today were Percy and Scanlan. I assumed they didn’t awaken anything in you.”

“Ew, no way. Gross.”

“Hey!” Scanlan protested.

Grog ignored him. “It was just… Shaun.”

When the name crossed his lips, his mouth twitched into a goofy smile.

“I thought so,” said Pike. “You’ve always gravitated toward him. You always want to hang out with him and impress him, and no matter how different you two seem at face-value, you click, somehow. Then recently, things seemed to get more serious. I see you looking at him a lot. I see how you perk up when someone mentions him. I… kind of suspected something was happening.”

“Oh.”

“I did not,” Scanlan said. “But, wow, Grog. Get some.”

Grog waved a dismissive hand in his direction and kept his focus on Pike.

“You never asked me about it.”

“I didn’t want to pry!” Pike said. “This was something for you to work out on your own.”

Grog huffed.

“Well, it only took me years.”

And he told them all of it—every detail of his awakening. He told them how invested he’d been in Shaun from the beginning, how much Vax had annoyed him by throwing away something so wonderful, how he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the glorious sorcerer, with his pretty clothes and magic hands and smile brighter than the sun. He even told them about that morning, and the arousal that had tipped him off to the nature of his feelings.

When he was finished, they looked impressed, like this all ran much deeper than they expected.

“You’re actually smitten,” Scanlan said. “Holy fuck.”

“What? Shut up!” Grog said.

“Grog, he means it in a good way,” Pike assured him. “We adore Shaun. We approve. Highly.”

“Of course you adore Shaun,” Grog said. “Who wouldn’t?”

They exchanged a glance, wordless communication passing between them.

“You’re pretty serious about him, huh?” Pike asked.

“I don’t know!” he said. “I- you guys both know I find a lot of people sexy. A _lot _of people. But those feelings are mostly physical. I don’t often want to _be _with them, like… romantically.”

Pike’s eyes were shining.

“But with Shaun, it’s romantic?”

“Of course,” Grog said helplessly. “I wish I could be sweep him off his feet. But I know… I know he’s not going to… want me.”

“_Grog_,” Pike said. “That’s so untrue. I only asked because I think there _is _a chance.”

He snorted.

“Seriously. Shaun takes notice of you too. I see how his eyes fall on you when he enters a room. And how you make him smile. Plus, he takes special care of you. I know he brought you a hangover cure at Dalen’s Closest…”

“No way,” Grog said, pushing away the too-perfect idea. “No. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Why not?” Scanlan asked. “You’re a catch, Grog.”

“Not to _him,_” Grog protested. “I may talk a big game. I- I act like I’m the bravest, smartest, strongest man alive and I single-handedly saved the world. But I’m not _that much_ of an idiot. I don’t… I don’t _really_ believe that. I know I’m… slow. I know I’m not good at lots of stuff.”

They were both frowning.

“Give Shaun a little more credit,” Pike said sternly. “He’s not close-minded enough to think you’re stupid and dismiss you.”

That brought Grog up short. It was such a simple counterpoint. So hard to argue with. He remembered, suddenly, the conversation he’d had on the beach at Dalen’s Closet, and all the reassurance he’d received. He would _never_ want to underestimate Shaun.

“Okay,” he acquiesced. “Maybe it’s not because of who I am. But there’s another reason I can’t expect things to happen.”

“Which is?” said Scanlan.

“I only just worked out I like men!” said Grog. “First of all, Shaun won’t have a crush on me, because as far as he knows, there’s no point. Second of all, I don’t wanna try everything for the _first time_ with him. What if I mess it up? What if I can’t commit, and I hurt his feelings? I can’t imagine anything worse.”

They nodded.

“That’s quite mature, Grog,” Pike told him. “If you think you might not be ready, it is better to leave it.”

“So what _do _you want to do?” Scanlan asked.

Judging by his face, he was hoping for a particular answer. Grog ignored that as best he could, thinking instead about what he actually wanted for himself. And suddenly, a hint of excitement came rushing back. He started smiling.

“Actually,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind, um, checking out this new feeling.”

“In what way?”

“Like maybe we could go out and I could find a guy and, I dunno, have some fun.”

“Like, to get it on?” Scanlan asked, expression teetering on the edge of wild excitement. Like this _was _the answer he’d been hoping for.

Grog glanced between his two friends, and their encouraging expressions. He thought of all his past crushes, and how satisfying it would have been to pursue them. He fully grinned.

“Yeah, like get it on.”

Scanlan whooped and leaped up in his chair, pumping his fist in the air. Pike laughed.

“Come on,” said Scanlan. “Kaylie’s playing at the Hunter’s Moon! We can find someone there, for sure!”

And they did.

There were several attractive guys at the Hunter’s Moon. Grog felt light-headed. He took a table with Scanlan and Pike, waving to Kaylie, where she was preparing to start the show. Then he began to whisper to his friends what he was thinking—who looked cute, who seemed like they were already taken, who seemed to also be scanning the tavern for prospects.

“Oh, wow, look at that guy,” Grog murmured.

The man he’d spotted was a half-orc, and so broad-chested that he seemed to be straining his embroidered waistcoat, under which, he wore nothing. His hair was long, pulled back in a thick braid. His face was marked with stubble and a reckless grin. Currently, he leaned across his table, locked in an arm-wrestle with another large man.

He was winning.

“Predictable,” Scanlan sang happily, sounding quite affectionate.

“Shh,” Grog said.

He cradled his ale and watched as the arm-wrestling came to an end. The half-orc slammed the other man’s fist down and gave a devilish smirk at the very ungracious response he received to his victory.

He was flexing his fingers when his opponent left the table. And suddenly, his eyes fell on Grog across the room.

The world seemed to move in slow motion for Grog, as the half-orc appraised him. There was a _very _extended, unashamed trail of green eyes up and down his body. Then a slow lip bite. An eyebrow raised and a small smile given.

Grog nodded in return, raising his mug just a little, as if giving a toast. But the half-orc didn’t come over. Instead, he stood, and walked to the bar.

“Grog, go join him!” Scanlan said, elbowing him in the side.

“Yeah, that totally looked like a signal,” Pike agreed.

“Shit, okay,” Grog said. “Okay.”

He downed the last of his ale and left the mug sitting on his table. It was only his first, so he wasn’t feeling a thing yet. But he was glad. He preferred the idea of doing this sober.

The half orc was sitting on a stool by the bar and had ordered a small plate of fried food. Grog went to join him. This close, he could see the fuzz of his undercut, and a little divot in his ear near the top, like something had taken a slice out. He found it rather charming.

As he was sitting down, the band fell into a lull, and Kaylie began to speak.

“This one’s called _The Brawn of Bears, _and it’s for my friend and roommate, Grog! Enjoy it, tough guy!”

And the band burst into the lively tune—one written by Kaylie herself, inspired by Trinket and Grog and a wrestling game. Grog had been so touched to have his deeds immortalised in song, it had become an instant favourite for him. It was almost enough to distract him. At least, for a verse or so.

“This is a fucking good song,” said the half-orc, drawing his attention back.

“Fuck yeah! It’s my favourite.”

His new friend turned toward him, so that their knees were a hairbreadth away from touching, expression rather thoughtful.

“And you’re Grog, right?”

Grog couldn’t hide his astonishment at the deduction. “I am.”

The half-orc smiled.

“I saw that drum guy point to you,” he explained. “But I’m glad to make a good first impression. I’m Yersun, by the way.”

He reached out to shake Grog’s hand—so firm. Then he let his fingers loiter along the tender pulse point of Grog’s wrist.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Grog blurted.

Yersun looked pleased. He bit his lip for the second time that evening. A rather tempting habit.

“I would be delighted.”

They barely finished one drink together before they gave up every pretence. There was such clear tension in the air, it demanded to be solved. Grog suggested an arm wrestle. Yersun suggested something more intense, and hinted, heavily, that he had a room upstairs.

Grog was surprised by how fast his heart was beating as he followed him.

Yersun pressed him against the door while he unlocked it—the heat of their bodies together, his strong fingers twisting the key. Eye contact that promised more. Then, as the door clicked open, he dropped a light kiss against Grog’s mouth, an unexpected gentleness, and tugged him into the room.

It all fell into place.

Grog gave as good as he got, kisses and displays of strength and passion. Bursts of laughter. Seconds of pure intensity. Clothes slowly discarded on the floor. They turned each other over until Grog was pressed down into the bed, Yersun straddling his thighs.

Yersun’s shirt was gone now, and every inch of robust, green skin revealed, including a thick strap of hair that travelled down his stomach.

Grog was quickly feeling overwhelmed. But the good kind. The kind that came with pleasure and safety. He just knew he needed to say something else, before his brain melted entirely.

“I gotta tell you. I’ve never done this. Not- not sex. I’ve done plenty of that. But sex with a man.”

Yersun took it in his stride. He nodded.

“But do you want to?” he asked. “I hope I haven’t been presumptuous.”

“Of course I want to!” Grog said, ignoring the word he didn’t know. He clutched a little tighter at Yersun’s back, to make his point. “I want… the most I can get. I want you to fuck me.” Yersun grinned wickedly. “I just also wanted you to know.”

“I’m honoured that I get to introduce you to this experience,” Yersun said. “But, Grog, I just need to lay everything out there. I’m not looking for a relationship. If you want to get attached, I’m not sure…”

Grog laughed. A sound that was real and light and indisputable in the truth it carried.

“Gods, neither am I,” he said. He saw his companion relax. “I really just want…”

“To be fucked?”

“Hell. Yes.”

And so, Yersun introduced him to everything he asked for. And all of Grog’s new understanding clarified. He wanted men in his life in exactly this way. He’d been craving it for years.

For now, he tried not to think about his other craving—the more complicated one that asked for romance and intimacy—that asked for those things to come, quite specifically and unflinchingly, for Shaun Gilmore. That one was still a little too scary. That one could linger in the background a little longer.

In the meantime, he would explore this less intimidating horizon.

…

Shaun stayed in Zephrah for the night, and along with Keyleth, Vex, and Percy, he helped clean up. He also sat them down for a talk, explaining, in no uncertain terms, why they should stop thinking about him and Grog. They acquiesced. But he didn’t trust their knowing expressions when they did so.

There were flatbreads left over from the Highsummer feast, since so many had been made in the first place. Shaun added a couple to his packed lunch before he left the next day. He kissed each of his friends on their cheeks, and then hopped aboard a farming cart heading to Westruun.

On the way, as the sun passed overhead and the heat of noon beat down, he opened up his food. The flatbreads were a little past their best, but he had magic to help with that. And when they were warm once more, he began to eat, dipping them in thick, spiced sauce, and savouring their crisp layers, and soft interior. At the party, he hadn’t had much time to think about flavour and craft. But now…

He had to acknowledge how well they’d been made. It was the taste of home. Like they’d been imbued with love. His mind conjured the image of Grog, working alongside him, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in focus, and he quickly cast away the thought.

When he arrived in Westruun, he went straight to his store, thanking the cart that drove him with a generous helping of silver. He got to work reshuffling his precious goods and putting out advertisements for employees. He was pretty sure he’d be able to open in a couple of months, and that was almost enough of a thrill to keep his focus.

Almost.

Because he was unable to stop lingering over the topic raised by Kima, Allura, and now Keyleth: the potential that had somehow been noticed independently by Vex and Percy.

_There’s no potential, _he told himself firmly. _It’s impossible._

But his thoughts danced back to Grog, often via the most obscure connections to things he was working on. He would see a goblet, and think of drinks with his friends, and the flush that was so clear under grey skin. He would see an enchanted walking stick, and it would transform to a deadly weapon under his gaze, twirling through the hands of a familiar warrior. He would see an ancient carving of two men, one on his knees before the other, and his imagination would sprint off, wondering what Grog would look like in such a position.

He stayed in Westruun for three days, and nothing improved.

On his last night, as Shaun wandered from the shop back to his accommodation, the magnetism had grown too strong to resist, and his feet carried him on a path through the temple district, toward the childhood home that Pike and Grog had shared in their teenage years.

He’d been there only a few times before, for tea, but it wasn’t hard to find. He’d paid attention to the streets, wanting to understand the place that had shaped two of his dearest friends.

Shaun stopped outside the house without knocking. He didn’t want to trouble Wilhand. The building looked lonely though, with just a single light in an upstairs window, and none of the liveliness that Grog and his adoptive sister might have brought with them, to grace the home with laughter. To grace the entire neighbourhood.

A clatter off to his right made Shaun start in surprise. But when he turned, it was only one of the neighbours, casting out a pan of dust, broom in one hand.

She made eye contact, and smiled, recognition on her face. And, brushing off her hands on her pants, she came down the stairs toward him.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “You’re friends with Grog and Pike, right? We met a few months back.”

“Oh,” Shaun realised. “You’re Misty?”

She nodded, beaming.

She was one of Grog and Pike’s childhood friends. Shaun had made her acquaintance with Pike at his side, the first time he came to visit Wilhand’s house. She worked for the city guard, and indeed, though her face was round, large-eyed, and innocent, there was a sturdy sword hanging at her belt. And a lilt to her step which indicated she must know how to use it.

Up close, Shaun could see the honey tint in her hair, and the freckles on her nose.

“I am. And you’re Gilmore? Say, are you still about to open your shop in town?”

“Yes, I just came from there.”

“Oh, how exciting!” she beamed. “Grog was really enthused about it last time I saw him. He kept saying how great it would be for the city, and how maybe he could visit his favourite supplier and his Grandpa all in one go.”

She giggled, clearly endeared at the memory of Grog’s enthusiasm, and something struck Shaun in his chest. It couldn’t be jealously, of course, because he’d never been a jealous person. Yet it was something… off.

It felt like mourning. Like regret. Like… longing.

That was an emotion he’d known since childhood: the feeling that he was reaching out his hands for some big dream, scared it might be snatched away. He hated that it came up now. Hated that it was rising as a pretty girl spoke to him about Grog.

He considered Misty’s sweet face as she talked on, and though he managed to give responses, his heart wasn’t really in the conversation. He was thinking how this bright woman full of unexpected power was just the kind of person who would suit Grog. He was thinking of their history together, and their affection. The stuff that could blossom into something more.

“Misty, are you out here?”

A second voice joined the conversation, and Misty waved over a short, stocky guy who looked rather similar to her. He had the same honey curls, cut only a little shorter, hanging over his broad shoulders, and a freckle-face smile that could break hearts.

“This is my brother,” Misty explained.

“Sage,” he said, reaching out to shake Shaun’s hand. “And please, tell me who you are.”

His eyes raked Shaun’s body. He was flirting, quite plainly.

“I’m Shaun,” he said, accepting a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“What brings you to our neighbourhood tonight? I must thank whatever forces caused my path to cross with yours.”

His sister rolled her eyes, exasperated. The lines were almost Scanlan-level over-the-top. But Shaun’s thoughts were still elsewhere.

Here was a handsome man, standing beside his gorgeous sister, introducing himself for the first time. And perhaps that should have excited him. But it didn’t. And perhaps the encounter _should _have made him think of Vax. But his old flame barely crossed his mind. He was still thinking of Grog. Trying to pull apart his feelings.

Because, _shit, _he really did like Grog. He really did. Why else would he have walked out of his way just to pass the house where Grog once lived? Why else would he feel so heartbroken simply _meeting _a woman who might suit his friend so well?

What legitimate excuses could he give himself, now?

“Sage,” Misty said, voice heavy with intent. “This is _Shaun Gilmore. _Who comes here with Grog.”

“Oh! Sorry,” Sage suddenly looked sheepish about his flirting. “Shaun Gilmore, who Pike introduced to you?”

“Yes.”

“And who Grog talked about like…?”

“Yes.”

“Shaun Gilmore,” Sage repeated. “Grog’s…?”

“Yeah, Grog’s…?”

They both glanced at Shaun as if waiting for him to fill in the blank. Grog’s friend? Grog’s… something else?

Shaun was so distracted he barely noticed. He just waved a vague farewell, and walked off into the city, toward his night’s accommodation.

He thought about Grog the entire way, and by the time he shut himself in his room, his head felt heavy with unshed tears. He was so furious with himself—with his friends, even though he knew they weren’t to blame—for the mere fact that he felt this way. It seemed like something he couldn’t deny anymore. Not if he hoped to think of himself as sensible and in touch with who he was.

He had a crush on Grog.

_And I’m more of a fool than ever, _he thought.

He rolled onto his side, and looked out at the moon, which hung above the city. Its shape seemed so innocent. Innocuous. The moon had no idea it was a symbol of romance. It didn’t know how it lit up the beaches on the Bay of Gifts, the skies over Emon, the snowy drifts of Whitestone—every place where Shaun’s heart had tugged him toward Grog without him even realising.

No, the moon simply _was. _

Shaun wished he could participate in such blissful ignorance. He wished he could watch the follies of love from a distance, protected and alone.

Yet, when he fell asleep, he remembered the look of Grog’s grey eyes on his—in dreams and in waking—and in that instant, he didn’t fault himself. In that instant, the pull of Grog Strongjaw felt as irresistible as the forces of magic that bound and built the world. As inevitable as the slow phases of the moon. The celestial body didn’t seem so aloof and detached. It seemed to understand his yearning.

When he drifted off, outlined by silver light, he did so with a smile.

...


	10. Pull Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was written up fast. i had a lot of time and felt inspired. remember to find me on twitter (@ceylonthae) or tumblr (ceylonntea) to scream at me, see sneak peaks, and see new art before i add it to the bottoms of the ao3 chapters. 
> 
> oh, and these first two perspective happen simultaneously, but i wanted to give you both sides. hope you all enjoy!

Over the next two months, Grog had a lot of fun. He went to many taverns and social spaces, and sought out many different people: men, women, and those who didn’t fit into such a binary. Each time, he felt a little more certain of himself and his choices.

But he still thought about Shaun all the time. Dreamed about him, even. He was living in anticipation of an upcoming gathering, where all his friends would meet in Westruun, for the official opening of the new branch of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods. Shaun had playfully requested that his official sponsored party be there, for once, in the branded armour he’d made for them. They had agreed. It was hard to refuse him things, nowadays, when they were so much more than business partners.

“We teleport all the time lately,” Pike was musing, as the Vasselheim household got ready together. She was attaching a breastplate with a gleaming purple unicorn crowned by Sarenrae’s sun. “Don’t you think it would be cool to set up some sort of public transport system with runes and stations in every major city instead of just in our own houses? Something other people could use?”

“With whose magic?” Scanlan asked.

“Well,” Pike regarded him. “Haven’t you been looking for a project?”

Scanlan laughed.

“It actually does sound amazing,” he admitted, planting a kiss on her cheek. “A global arcane undertaking by a simple bard would certainly be impressive. But, unfortunately, that would take _decades _to complete and test, and right now, we’re about to be late for Shaun’s surprise.”

Pike snorted. “I didn’t mean you have to invent it right now.”

Grog interrupted them before they could start any flirtatious banter, having lit up at the mere mention of his crush.

“Do you really think Shaun doesn’t suspect?” he said.

“He has no idea,” said Scanlan. “We’ve _all_ sent apologies that we can’t make it until the day of, so Shaun’ll be preparing to stay up late into the night, adding any last-minute creative touches. And then, boom! Vox Machina burst in to save the day!”

“And Kima and Allura,” Pike said.

“And them. Of course. We swoop in, we finish everything in record time, we tuck Shaun into bed—"

“I’m sure Grog will volunteer for that job,” Pike said.

_“Pike!” _

But despite protesting, Grog couldn’t help his smile. He actually enjoyed their friendly teasing. Thrived on it. It made him feel so _normal. _

As Pike and Scanlan continued to chatter, he tuned them out, and finished putting on his armour. He hadn’t tried it properly before, but it fit. He remembered when Shaun measured him, so long ago—firm hands turning his body to the right angles, tape measure moving around Grog’s broad shoulders, the sorcerer kneeling before him, little furrow in his brows, master of his work. And as Grog tied in the breastplate, he felt a warm flutter in his chest at the sight of the unicorn and the purple swirls. A mark of loyalty he was more than happy to bear.

His fingers traced the shape. Shaun wasn’t a blacksmith, and the craft of the armour had been commissioned to someone else. But the design was _all _him. Undeniable. Distinct. Beautiful.

Then the other two were ready and there was no more time for Grog to stare at his reflection. Scanlan guided them into a circle, whistled a few notes, and opened up their teleportation rune, as he’d been taught. They burst through the arcane doorway into Wilhand’s house.

“You’re late,” Grandpa Wilhand said.

He got up from his chair, struggling more than usual, as he continued to grow frailer every day. He greeted each of them before they set off toward Shaun’s new store.

It was already getting dark in Westruun. They hurried through empty streets, hyperaware that they were, indeed, late for the planned surprise. When they arrived at Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, they could see the lights on in the back room and hear the gentle drifting of voices from where most of their friends had gathered.

“Shit,” said Pike. “They already went in.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll just go join.”

Scanlan lead the way toward the colourful building. As they drew closer, they could hear the tail-end of a conversation inside. Shaun was the one talking.

“… I don’t want to narrow down my options,” he said. “Especially when _this_ option is impossible. When he… I think, perhaps, I should try to find someone new.”

Grog ducked beneath the outer door, one step behind the gnomes.

“What do you mean?” asked Vex’s contemplative voice.

“That perhaps I’m simply lonely,” Shaun answered. “I’m a romantic at heart and I’m surrounded by couples who founded their relationships in friendship. It makes me want something similar. But instead of… yearning, I should put myself out there. Date people. That would be the first step in finding someone I could _truly _spend my life with.”

Scanlan and Pike had both stopped walking in the middle of the storage room, mere paces from the doorway through which their friends’ voices carried. In fact, they had frozen. Grog almost crashed into them.

He realised, a second late, exactly what kind of conversation they were overhearing. Something serious. Shaun confessing that he was lonely. Shaun talking about _dating._

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Keyleth asked.

Grog’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’d like to be open-minded,” Shaun said. “I’d like to give someone a chance. I think it would be healthy.”

There was a pause, like everyone in the room was looking for something to say. Suddenly, Scanlan shook himself, glanced at Pike. Something passed between them.

“Um, hello!” Scanlan yelled, louder than he normally would have. Grog jumped. “Shaun! Everyone else! We’re here!”

Chairs scraped back in the other room, and exclamations rang out. Their friends appeared in the doorway and dragged them through. A storm of hugs and greetings rose up. Percy told them they were late, and Scanlan made some snappy comment in response.

Every word passed over Grog though. He was staring at Shaun—who was lonely, who wanted to date, who wanted to give unlikely candidates a chance.

And then Shaun was standing right in front of him. He looked a little ruffled, more casual than usual, as he prepared for an evening of working on his shop. Grog was rather overwhelmed. He was almost tempted to just blurt out some clumsy, half-baked request for Shaun to be his boyfriend. But he schooled himself into silence, aware that this man deserved something far more romantic.

Shaun grinned and tapped a finger on the purple unicorn embedded in the armour in the centre of Grog’s chest.

“I knew this would look good on you,” he said.

His expression jolted Grog back to reality.

“Fuck, yeah,” Grog said, flexing his arms. “No surprise, when you made it.”

Shaun’s eyes grew very warm. He opened his mouth to speak. And then, suddenly, the look dropped off his face. Replaced by something more restrained.

“Anyway, you’re all here to help, right?” he said, already turning his back “Let’s get started.”

And he slipped to the front of the crowd.

Soon enough, everyone had been put to work to get the store in order. Grog happily dedicated himself to whatever he was assigned, though his mind was half gone contemplating what he’d overheard, running in such circles that the strain gave him a headache.

At last, just before midnight, everything was done.

Though Shaun suggested a drink, they sent him off to bed. His rooms upstairs had now been cleared out.

The rest of the visitors had been invited to stay at Wilhand’s house. During the walk back, Grog barely participated in the conversation. His eyes were focused simply on putting one foot in front of the other, his thoughts still wrapped up in the man they’d left behind.

He missed the way everyone else seemed to keep glancing at him, and the way they were fighting the urge to whisper.

He went to bed absorbed in his own internal world.

…

Shaun was shocked when his friends walked into his Westruun store, decked out in branded armour, and declared they wanted to help him set up for his grand opening. With teary-eyed gratitude, he hugged each one of them, while they all spoke at once.

He counted Vex, Keyleth, Percy, Kima, and Allura—most of his dearest, dearest friends—here to celebrate his success.

“I can’t believe you all did this,” he said, voice a little choked. “You said you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”

“All part of the plan,” Kima said smugly.

“Scanlan, Pike, and Grog are meant to be here too,” Vex added. “But apparently they’re late.”

“We waited outside for ten minutes, to be fair,” said Percy.

Shaun laughed.

“That’s alright, they don’t need a grand entrance,” he said. “They can join when they get there. Gods, I’m so lucky to have you all. I didn’t expect anything.”

“We know,” Allura said.

But they didn’t start working right away. Shaun offered them a cup of tea and sat them out the back. He had two rooms on the ground floor there, one simply for storage, and another with a wide table, where he could work on crafting when he needed to. He scrounged up enough chairs for them all to sit.

“How are you feeling?” Allura asked.

“Honestly?” Shaun said. “Kind of overwhelmed. I’ve had so much on my mind lately; it feels unreal that I’ve finished the store. Opening tomorrow! How wild!”

“It looks amazing,” Allura said.

At the same time, Keyleth spoke, expression quizzical.

“What have you had on your mind?”

Shaun was halfway through pouring tea. He set down the kettle, regarding the group. Everyone present had previously been involved in asking him about Grog. He supposed he didn’t mind updating them—telling them the realisation he’d had.

And maybe now was a good time. At least the conversation would be limited, cut-off when Grog and the gnomes arrived. It was a good chance for Shaun to say his piece and deal with very little response. He would prefer it that way. Especially if his friends were about to continue their wishful-thinking insistence that his crush might like him back.

“Frankly, I’ve been thinking about Grog,” he said, getting straight to the point. “And I’m rather unhappy with all of you.”

“_Oh_,” Keyleth said.

“I know you meant well, bringing up the-the things you thought you saw between us. But I was living in _blissful_ ignorance before, and since you all decided to share your opinions, I can’t stop _thinking_ about him.” He sighed. “I have to admit it. I _do_ like him. Far too much.”

“Woah,” Keyleth breathed.

“You’ve come a long way from ‘I refuse to think about it,’” Vex added.

“Yeah,” said Kima.

They looked so worried, still.

“Will you, um, do something about it?” Percy asked.

Shaun shook his head firmly.

“The fact remains that _Grog_ is not interested in _me,_” he said. “That’s why I’m annoyed with all of you! I can’t be caught up in an unrequited crush on my friend. I refuse to be.”

“But—” both Vex and Kima started.

“I’m going to get some distance,” he barrelled on. “I need you to respect that. Let me separate myself from Grog a little and try to move past these feelings.”

“But—” Keyleth tried.

“Mooning over him forever would lead me to a very lonely life,” Shaun said. “I’ve always wanted to find love, and I won’t give that up now. I don’t want to narrow down my options. Especially when _this_ option is impossible. When he…”

_When he isn’t attracted to me. And never will be, _Shaun thought. But the words were a little too painful and pathetic to be given voice. Instead, he continued in a measured tone. 

“I think, perhaps, I should try to find someone new.”

Vex was looking very thoughtful. It was as though a difficult puzzle had been laid out before her, and she was trying to connect all the pieces.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“That perhaps I’m simply lonely,” Shaun answered, justifying it to himself as much as to them. “I’m a romantic at heart and I’m surrounded by couples who founded their relationships in friendship. It makes me want something similar. But instead of… yearning, I should put myself out there. Date people. That would be the first step in finding someone I could _truly _spend my life with.”

It was his latest plan, much thought about over the last two weeks. Shaun was sure that, if he went out on the dating scene, and met some men, he would eventually find someone he liked. He would eventually be able to move on.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Keyleth asked.

Shaun’s brain brought up a precise image of Grog again. He pushed it down.

“I’d like to be open-minded,” he said. “I’d like to give someone a chance. I think it would be healthy.”

Everyone was quiet. They were trying to be respectful, he could tell, but they were bursting to say something more. He picked up the kettle again, to finish their drinks, and suddenly, a loud voice yelled out from the shop’s alleyway entrance.

“Hello!” It was distinctive. Scanlan had arrived. “Shaun! Everyone else! We’re here!”

They cast aside their difficult conversation and rushed out to greet the last arrivals. Shaun dipped down to hug each of the gnomes before approaching Grog.

He had expected himself to feel awkward, since he’d been avoiding Grog for two months now, lying about whether he was in Emon or Westruun and even missing out on a tea party in Whitestone. He’d also expected himself to feel self-conscious, knowing most of the people in the room were aware of his crush.

But instead, the sight of Grog in the armour he’d designed for him chased every fear away. He reached up a hand and tapped the little unicorn symbol.

“I knew this would look good on you,” he said.

“Fuck, yeah,” Grog said. “No surprise, when you made it.”

The muscles in his arms shifted as he struck a pose, looking almost flirtatious. Shaun was quite tempted to reach up and lay his hand against a bicep, to see how firm and solid and reassuring it felt beneath his fingers.

He knew his expression was softening beyond belief. Too revealing.

Quickly, he reigned in his emotions. And schooled his expression back to something casual and contained. He turned away as he said his next words:

“Anyway, you’re all here to help, right? Let’s get started.”

The others had probably noticed the interaction_, _but they didn’t say anything. Shaun began to assign them different helpful tasks. And, returning to his plan to put some distance between himself and the man he liked, he made sure all of Grog’s jobs placed him far away.

…

The next day, Grog woke early with his friends. They walked to Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, wearing their armour once again, polished and gleaming in the dawn light. It was a wonderful day—with a bright, clean swathe of sky and a soft breeze.

The store was just opening when they arrived, doors thrown open, signs on the street beckoning passers-by to take a peek inside.

“Shaun!” Keyleth yelled as they approached. “We’re here!”

Shaun turned them into greeters. Some went to pass out fancy snacks and spread the word around the streets. Others hovered near the door, or inside the shop itself, guiding customers. And it really was quite the turn out!

Grog was placed on duty as a walking advertisement through the city, so he didn’t see much of Shaun. But he would happily take credit for the high numbers of people whose curiosity seemed piqued by the sight of an amiable goliath in sparkling armour, handing out paper cones of Marquesian sweets. He also waved down several friends and acquaintances, including childhood companions and ex-members of the Herd of Storms who had settled in the city.

He was fairly bad at describing what Gilmore’s Glorious Goods actually sold. As far as he knew, it contained literally anything a person could need, except for, maybe, lock-picks. But luckily, his muddled approach was working. More intrigued than ever, people would take his pamphlets and free goodies, and head off in the right direction.

Once or twice, he also got distracted simply talking up who Shaun was as a person. He drew out a particularly long conversation with an old woman who had delivered milk to their household when he was a teenager. She remembered him well, though she was long-retired, and listened patiently as Grog told her about Shaun’s many talents.

“He sounds like a lovely man,” she said. “You’re very lucky.”

“I am,” said Grog cheerfully.

“I always knew you’d end up with someone quite remarkable,” she continued. “You looked a rough boy at first sight, but I remember those sweet manners.”

Grog blinked, realising that she thought Shaun was his boyfriend. He wasn’t sure how to rectify the mistake. And before he could speak, she gave him a pat on his arm, took up her flyer, and began to leave.

“I’ll go and visit this fancy store for you. Goodbye, wee Grog.”

“Goodbye,” Grog said.

He shook it off as quickly as he could and continued with his promotion, approaching a dreadlocked halfling in a blacksmith’s apron.

Whenever Grog returned to the shop to restock and report back—Vex taking the information, since Shaun was swamped with attentive customers—he would spot a new familiar face. There were a lot of shopkeepers from Emon and Whitestone. And a lot of good friends. At Shaun’s request, Sherri had shut the other branches of the store and joined this one for the day. Jarret had taken time off work to come purchase something small and cheap, and express how proud he was of his honorary cousin. Zahra made a long appearance, joining the troupe of helpers, making sure none of them forgot to eat lunch.

Grog tried, a few times, to catch Shaun alone, but their eyes never quite met. He decided not to let it bother him. It was a phenomenal day, truly the grand opening the store deserved, and he wouldn’t let himself be selfish about his friend’s attention.

Besides, he would see plenty of Shaun in the week that followed. Because he had a plan.

They closed the shop late and, rather exhausted, went for a brief drink in a nice, cosy bar to celebrate the successful day. Musicians played a lively tune, and background chatter echoed off the crowded walls, so there was no pressure to make conversation. Grog spent most of his time admiring Shaun in the firelight.

The sorcerer looked cute when he was sleepy. He was still decked out in finery, with layers of floaty clothing Grog could never have wrapped his head around, covered in glimmering jewellery. Yet his features had turned soft. His mouth was muted by yawning, his eyes sat a little heavy, and he cradled his wine close and content.

“I’m so happy,” he said. “It went so well.”

“We’re proud of you,” Vex told him.

“One last toast?” asked Kima.

Shaun assented, and they shared a loud cheer for their friend, who had finally achieved the dreams the wars had torn away from him. 

After that, they walked him home, in the kind of subdued silence of people who were spent but satisfied. They hugged him in turn at the door, giggling at how silly they must look, all lined up in a row. Grog, who had been getting tired, felt himself wake up as his turn drew closer.

When Shaun saw he was next, he seemed to stiffen for a fleeting moment. Then he grabbed Grog anyway and yanked him close. He smelled faintly of wine over the usual rich, clean scent he wore at his wrists and throat. His ear was at a height with the pulse point in Grog’s neck, and suddenly Grog thought his heart was beating much too loud.

“Thank you for coming,” Shaun said.

The same words he’d said to everyone. But Grog clutched each one close, like they were something physical he might hold as a memento of this moment. He squeezed his friend as delicately as possible. At last, Shaun let go.

Grog walked home in a daze, and, still a little tipsy, fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed of that hug a thousand times, in different ways, and woke flustered and disorientated.

His eyes adjusted. The walls around him were familiar, as was the feel of the mattress beneath. He was in his old bedroom again, in Grandpa Wilhand’s house. Scanlan had gone to sleep on the floor beside him, chattering happily and drunkenly about nice gnome-sized pillows that wouldn’t drown him in his sleep. Pike was sharing a room with Keyleth next door. Percy and Vex would be in the guestroom. And Kima and Allura had curled up on a couch downstairs.

He doubted anyone else would be awake before him, so he stayed a little longer, musing over his dreams. Then he realised he couldn’t hear Scanlan breathing.

He sat bolt upright. The tiny mattress was empty.

“Scanlan?” he whispered.

There was no reply.

Grog tumbled out of bed, and marched over to his curtains, squinting suspiciously at the light outside. It wasn’t too bright—not too late in the day.

He stumbled downstairs, looking for his roommate. When he drew close to the kitchen, he realised he could hear voices inside. Many voices, all whispering frantically, sounding excited and tripping over one another. He glanced at Kima and Allura’s couch, where they’d drifted off, entwined, the night before. It was empty too.

He swung open the kitchen door and the room fell silent. Seven sets of eyes stared back at him.

“Woah,” Grog said. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Grog!” Vex said very brightly, pulling out the chair beside her. “Join us for breakfast, will you?”

“Okay,” Grog sat down, scanning their faces.

A few of them were blushing. It was clear from a glance at Percy’s ears. And he knew Pike well enough to read the awkwardness in her expression.

“Why’re you being weird?” Grog asked.

Vex spoke over the top of him.

“What would you like to eat? We have bacon, eggs, potatoes cooked in lard. And Pike says these are your favourite sausages?”

She held one up, stabbed through with a fork, and Grog’s attention was snapped up. He forgot all the suspicious behaviour he’d been watching for. He simply grabbed a plate, piled it high, and began to eat. Fresh conversation started around him.

Half-way through the meal, he remembered that he wanted to mention his new life plan to Pike—the one that had come to him over the last couple of days. He considered keeping it to himself until the rest had scattered to pack their things. But if his idea worked, they would find out soon enough. Having them gathered in one space gave him a pretty good opportunity to inform them.

“So, I’m staying in Westruun when you leave,” he announced.

They all fell silent again.

“For how long?” Pike asked.

“Not sure,” Grog said. “I love living with you, Pike. But before we left, when you mentioned to Scanlan how he’s been looking for a project, I realised kind of want a project too. I was thinking about how Ioun gave me all that black-smith know-how so I could defeat Vecna. That was cool. I’d like to learn it for real.”

“Grog, that’s awesome!” Pike said.

“I met this really cool halfling lady while I was advertising Shaun’s shop. She owns a smithy and she’s seeking a batch of new apprentices. She said even though I’m older than most, she might give me a shot. Asked me to come over this afternoon to talk about it.”

All his friends looked very impressed, telling him how much they approved. Grog barely listened though. He was building up to the next part.

“And there’s another reason why I want to stay here…”

They waited.

“I want to ask Shaun if he’ll go on a date with me.”

Keyleth let out an almighty squeal, leaping from her seat to hug him. Everyone else burst into laughter, but they looked equally elated, jumping up and crowding his space, wrapping their arms around his neck and yelling their opinions in his direction.

When the room settled, Grog, ignoring the bright flush of his own cheeks, asked why they were so happy.

“You guys are two of our best friends!” Keyleth said. “We’ve been _waiting_ for this moment!”

Vex elbowed her. “What Keyleth is trying to say is; we thought you might be interested in Shaun, and it’s really _really _lovely to see you deciding to do something about it.”

“You thought I—” Grog eyed her suspiciously. “Did Scanlan tell you?”

“No!” Scanlan said. “Of course not! Vex just…”

“I just guessed, darling,” Vex assured him.

And Pike, looking rather relieved, nodded along.

“I’m so glad you told everyone, Grog. I just spent half of breakfast trying to weave my way around Vex’s questions and avoid giving away your secrets.”

“Yes, she put up quite the stoic front,” Vex scowled. “All ‘I guess it _is _a possibility,” and ‘I do think it’d be neat!’ as if she didn’t well _know _you were thinking about Shaun that way. And I thought no one could bluff like me.”

“You’re still the best,” Pike said with a fond smile. “I had to look out for my best bud, though.”

“Thanks, Pike,” Grog said. “Anyway, how come you were talking about it, Vex?”

Suddenly, the room was overly still again.

“Well,” Vex said. “You, uh, overheard that conversation in the store, right?”

“Yeah, the end part.”

“Mm, Pike said that too,” Allura said. “But Grog, did you… work out who we were talking about? Pike and Scanlan did.”

“_Who_ you were talking about?” Grog was baffled. “Wasn’t Shaun talking about… himself?”

They passed looks around the table. Allura continued.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Hold on,” said Keyleth. “If he doesn’t know, it’s not our place to- Grog, why, exactly, did you decide to ask Shaun out now?”

Grog ducked his head.

“Aw, shit, guys,” he said. “I dunno. I liked him for a while, but I only worked out what all the feelings were about two months ago. I never thought I’d have a _chance _with him_, _obviously. But then I heard Shaun saying how lonely he was. That- that killed me, a little. I guess. And I figured, maybe, he’ll be open to something. Maybe even to me. If I can do this right.”

“That’s sweet,” Kima said dreamily, glancing at Allura.

“I know I can make him happy,” Grog added. “I’ll try really hard for the rest of my life. I- I know relationships take work. I’m _ready_.”

They were all smiling.

“Grog, that’s really cool,” said Vex. “We’ll be behind there to support you all the way, no matter what he says.”

“Yeah, this is a bold move,” said Keyleth.

Grog beamed. He liked that. He’d come a long way from the scared kid who didn’t know what bravery was—who didn’t know how to claim the helm of _courage. _

“You know, I was really scared for ages, about being into men,” he admitted.

“Really?” Percy asked. “Why?”

“You don’t have to get into it,” Pike said, “if you don’t want to.”

She seemed to know that Grog’s old fears ran deep, from a time before he met her. That must be why she’d never probed for answers on the subject before. Even back when she’d guessed he might like men.

“I want to,” he said.

But he didn’t look at them. He spun a potato chunk around his plate.

“It’s because of the herd. My dad and my uncle and stuff only ever seemed to sleep with women. It didn’t occur to me for ages that there were other options. And then, when I saw that people of the same gender sometimes… fell for each other… well…” He sighed. “There’s this tradition that we had, where two men can get together, but they have to do it as ‘blade husbands.’ It means they’re _really_ in it for life. They’re, like, warriors bound together.”

Another silence fell.

“I think I’ve read about that,” Percy said, trying to be helpful.

“Well, it _terrified _me,” Grog continued. “For a long time, I thought that was just ‘cause I didn’t want to settle down. And that was true enough. I really didn’t. Until Shaun...”

His audience cooed affectionately, and he paused his story to wave them away, blushing.

“But recently I worked out my fear was more complex. Because that kind of bond wouldn’t just bind me to- to the guy I chose. I would bind me to the herd. Forever. Some part of me knew that, and- Pike, there’s a word for it—”

“Associated?”

“Yeah, I ‘ssociated it with the people I wanted to escape.”

They absorbed his words solemnly. Vex reached out and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I’m so glad you can be free of them now,” she said.

“Thanks.” Grog smiled at her. “You guys help.”

“Shut up, that’s so sweet,” said Keyleth. She looked teary-eyed. “You deserve happiness, Grog. So does Shaun. You’re gonna be so cute together.”

Grog laughed, a little high from the way she spoke about it—like it was a sure thing that Shaun would say yes. He was happy to live in that reality for a while.

“Speaking of Shaun, though,” he said. “I need some advice on how to do this…”

…

Shaun was very busy dealing with his popular new shop: charming customers, finding interested buyers for rare goods, and solidifying tentative bonds in the business networks of the city. His plans were unfolding without a hitch. And he was so proud of his employees, who were picking up on everything remarkably quickly, especially the promoted assistant-turned-manager he’d called in from Emon.

After the first week, Shaun was ready to start backing off, letting the others take the reins. He planned to stay in Westruun for a while and come for regular check-ins, but he knew it was important for his workers to feel self-sufficient, since he’d be travelling between all his stores in the future, contactable only by his handy message spells.

“Seven days, gone in the blink of an eye,” he muttered to himself, as he closed up shop on the last day of the week.

Then he caught sight of someone moving outside.

Grog Strongjaw was walking through the square, past the little gardens that decorated the pretty marketplace. In his hands, he held a wicker box. His shoulders were adorned with a very fine piece of copper armour, shining new. His beard was combed and curling. Even the fabric wrapped around his waist seemed different from usual—a rather striking deep shade of blue.

And his eyes were fixed right on the shop’s front door.

Shaun ducked out of sight in the window, glad that Grog hadn’t spotted him yet. His heart was hammering. As far as he knew, Grog was meant to be back in Vasselheim. All Shaun’s friends had left soon after opening day.

Apparently not.

Grog reached the door, adjusted the box in his hands, and knocked. He looked nervous. Almost afraid.

Shaun considered pretending he didn’t hear it. He was _supposed _to be avoiding this man. Protecting his heart, and all that. But he hated the thought of Grog waiting for him out there, all alone. So he stepped forward.

“Hello, Grog,” he said. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Shaun!” Grog said. His voice sounded strange. “Hello! I came to talk to you. Wow, you look really nice.”

Shaun glanced down at his outfit. It was one of his favourites. An indigo colour that made him think of a night sky. With curls of gold embroidered like clouds and stars around his sleeves.

“Thank you,” he said carefully.

“I-I have some food here,” Grog said. “I remembered that your store closes now. So, I wondered if, perhaps, you would like to go for a walk with me and eat dinner together. I know the perfect spot.”

Shaun’s mind went blank. There was something so strange about the interaction. He couldn’t _imagine _what his friend was thinking.

“Okay, sure,” he said, forcing his voice to stay casual. He saw a flicker of some unreadable emotion run over Grog’s face. “I’ll just get… ready.”

He gestured vaguely to his hair.

“Of course.” Grog nodded sagely. “I’ll wait here.”

Shaun shut the door. He risked a quick peek out the window. Grog was walking to one of the little raised gardens outside. He put down his wicker box of food and bent to stare at the plants.

“What the fuck?” Shaun whispered to himself.

He wracked his brains to come up with an explanation for the visit. And suddenly, chilled to the core, he remembered something. The conversation he’d had with his friends the other day: the way they’d all been so absorbed they hadn’t listened for approaching footsteps: the way Scanlan’s voice had yelled out, so suddenly and abruptly. Perhaps even awkwardly.

_Shit,_ Shaun thought. _Did they hear me? Did Grog…_

He looked back out the window. Grog was still hunched over in the garden.

Shaun backed away and went upstairs, trying to calm his racing heart. If Grog had overheard the conversation, then he knew about Shaun’s crush. And, being the sweet guy that he was, he wouldn’t just tell him to back off. He would want to explain, as kindly as possible, why it would never work. He would want to let Shaun down easy.

“No, no, no,” Shaun said. “What have I done?”

He looked at himself in his bedroom mirror, fidgeted with his outfit and fixed some stray bits of hair. As if it would help. As if anything could cure his humiliation now.

He let out a derisive laugh.

“Vax broke things off like this,” he reminded himself. “You managed to be friends with him. You can- you can do that again.”

He didn’t sound convincing. He gave up on the mirror, and tucked a coin purse into a pocket, to pay Grog back for dinner. The last thing he wanted was to be a burden. It was likely embarrassing enough for his friend, to have been put in this situation in the first place.

Gathering himself, Shaun went back downstairs.

He was so keyed-up that he missed the clattering from his back room. He barely registered the sudden, sharp yell. And, before he reached his front door, an almighty, deafening, cracking sound rang out through the shop. His rear wall exploded.

Shaun’s back took the impact of flying rubble and a vase that shattered upon contact, slicing through his left leg.

He cried out—a mix of shock and pain—and rolled into his fall by lucky instinct, turning toward the source of all the chaos, climbing to his feet again. He had to grit his teeth past a shard of agony and broken glass that twisted in his calf. Adrenaline coursing fresh through his veins, he knew he’d feel it worse when this was over.

Whatever _this _actually was.

He called a fireball to life in the tips of his fingers as he watched the dust clear. Three masked figures materialised. As one leapt neatly through the gap, he made her the first target of his spell, only a second after she flicked a throwing knife in his direction.

Hobbling on one leg, Shaun couldn’t dodge it neatly. It grazed his arm. His fireball missed.

The next two attackers emerged, both poised to strike as well.

“You Shaun Gilmore?” the first one spat.

“Like I would answer that,” Shaun said, hoping to stall them just a second, knowing he had the best back-up in the world outside.

As it turned out, he didn’t need a second.

Grog smashed through the front door as the last word fell from his lips, eyes alright with the passion of one of his rages.

“Who the fuck’re these assholes?” he demanded, skidding to a stop beside Shaun, angling his body defensively.

“I don’t know! Ask them,” Shaun suggested, through gritted teeth.

The sound of his voice made Grog glance sideways, and his quick run-over of Shaun’s injuries filled his eyes first with distress and then with fury.

“Oh, I’m about to kill them,” he growled. “So we probably won’t find out.”

Before the attackers could defend themselves, he sprung forward and slammed a fist right in the face of the first one.

She reeled, crashing into a table, and he raised his hand to strike again. But her friends were quick. They chucked two daggers each at Grog, and all of them hit home, imbedded deep in the meat of his shoulders. Enough to make him flinch.

The smallest of the three dipped forward on one foot, plucked out a long-handled glaive and slashed it toward Grog’s legs, forcing him to leap back.

Using the moment of reprieve to their advantage, the intruders dragged their leader upright, into the space beside the shattered wall, reshuffling to a defensive stance. The bladed end of the glaive was poised and prepared.

With several feet between them, both groups were still for a moment, unsure who would make the next move.

But Shaun saw one of the strangers tearing open a wizard’s component pouch, and he knew there wasn’t much time before the neutral zone was broken. He lifted an arm, ready to respond with his own arcane power.

“I don’t have a weapon,” Grog said out of the corner of his mouth, ripping a dagger from his own flesh and discarding it like it was nothing.

“Behind the counter,” Shaun said, nodding to the great axes hanging on the wall.

He tried to ignore the fact that, even in the middle of a fight, Grog was hot.

Especially in the middle of a fight.

“Oh, that’s _delicious_,” Grog said when he saw the display of weapons.

He tore two axes down, duel-wielding. But the masked wizard moved into the offensive and pushed out an arcane wave. Shaun ripped it to pieces with a counter spell. Then Grog was back, swinging his new weapons in a wild arch toward their enemies.

The glaive came up to meet his strike, shocking strength in the arms of the small guy who wielded it.

“Nice move,” Grog said.

As far as Shaun knew, he was usually smiling in battle. But there was no amusement now. Only anger. His compliment sounded like a threat.

The leader also made a play for Grog, with a longsword drawn out of her belt. Grog blocked it with his left-hand axe. And both enemies doubled their strength against him, trying to find a crack in his defence.

Shaun kept focus on the wizard. Soon, magic crackled through the air around the three fighters locked in melee.

And then something remarkable happened.

Shaun and Grog, without a single instruction passed between them, with no coordination, settled into a flow of movement as beautiful as dancing. In the push and pull of the fight, they began to move as one—concentrated physical power united with forces beyond imagination—tangled up in wordless conversation. With a single goal. A single need.

They protected one another. They targeted the gaps left in each other’s battles. They moved, natural as breathing, in the spaces left by each other’s rapid footwork.

Gradually, they began to push back their three opponents, moving the fight into the craft room.

“Ethseem!” the wizard yelled suddenly, touching a long ribbon at his wrist, which, Shaun realised, contained a communication spell. “Send everyone in. We need the whole two dozen for these ones.”

“Back-up?” Grog asked, like they were betraying some sacred rule of fun.

His tone would have been at home in a casual sparring ring, if it weren’t for the danger in his eyes, the hint of something unimaginably strong and primal in the natural way he fought. Shaun felt a shiver travel up his spine.

The three intruders looked cocky now, however, as if confident their incoming support would turn the tide. Sensing that time might be running out, moving in tandem, Shaun and Grog struck forward in a graceful swing, re-doubling the impact of their attacks.

At last, the glaive—not built to face an axe with such concentrated weight behind it—began to falter. With one more vicious strike, it cracked along the polished wood of the shaft.

Shaun was equally successful with the wizard, hurling a spell of his own invention, hitting his enemy at the exact same moment as the crash of the great axe echoed through the room.

They could hear shouts outside now. Horses’ hooves.

Grog swung again, again, again, a frenzy of attacks that the masked figures could barely keep up with. Shaun planted his feet despite his pain, looking like a still horizon behind a storming sea. And with a sweep of his hand, he lifted the wizard off his feet. Grog’s axe cut down the short one with the broken glaive. Shaun clenched his fists together and watched his opponent crumple into nothing. Grog slammed the leader in the head, and she went out as well.

For an instant, the room was silent. Broken only by their ragged breathing. And the loud advancement of the people who had now surrounded the store outside.

“Shaun,” Grog whispered. “We might have to take the high ground. Jump on a rooftop, or—”

Shaun glanced at him, and at the stairs that lead to his private rooms: their only remaining escape. There was just one problem.

“My leg—” he began.

But Grog was already slotting his great axe into his belt and scooping Shaun into his arms. Right as the back door flew open, he began to bound up the stairs, ignoring the incensed yells behind him.

Shaun felt a hiss of breath escape Grog as a series of crossbow bolts took him right in the back. Yet he didn’t stop. He burst into the bedroom and slammed the door behind them, panting heavily as he set Shaun, oddly halting and gentle, back on his feet.

“Grog,” Shaun said despairingly. “Your poor back.”

“I’m fine,” said Grog.

But his back was, indeed, imbedded with weapons and gaping with raw wounds. Shaun put two hands on his shoulders and turned him around. They could hear muffled shouts downstairs, the intruders changing their course of attack and giving orders, discovering their fallen compatriots. A light tread hit the creaky stairs as someone began to sneak toward them.

Shaun began by pulling up a protection barrier on the door—a simple one, because it was all he could muster off the top of his head. And because there was more important magic.

Focusing carefully, he poured a healing spell into Grog.

“Wait, Shaun,” Grog said, as he realised what was happening. “Don’t waste—”

“Shh,” Shaun scolded. “Let me do this.”

Grog stilled. Shaun directed his magic, a trickle of gentle arcana that nudged the arrows out of muscle and sinew as it closed over the holes to heal them. Grog sighed in pure relief.

“Thank you,” he said, turning around. “Fuck, Shaun, heal yourself too. I-I couldn’t stand it if—”

Shaun did as he was asked, leaning on Grog’s arm as he cast the spell, partly because his leg _was_ making him feel woozy. He watched, a little numb, as shattered glass plunked gently to the wooden floor.

Then Grog let out a slightly hysteric laugh.

“That was- that was a rush, wasn’t it?” Grog said. “It’s been a long time since I fought like _this._”

His chest was heaving with each breath. Shaun realised they were still standing close together. A necessity for the healing spell. An indulgence in any other scenario. He wondered if he should move.

He couldn’t make his feet work.

Grog was staring right into his eyes. As if the fight made him more daring than ever before, he spoke.

“I feel dizzy,” he whispered, intimate, despite the roar of noise outside their tiny haven. Or perhaps because of it. “I- I came here all nervous, ready to ask you out, and I wasn’t even sure if you’d say _yes. _And when you did, I thought I might just explode. And now…”

Shaun froze. His mouth dropped open.

“Grog,” he said heavily. He thought back to the basket. The offer of dinner. “That was- you were asking me out?”

“Well, yeah?” Grog said.

His expression changed—more vulnerable than it had looked for the entire fight—like rejection was what truly terrified him.

“You didn’t… know?”

And perhaps Shaun was running on a high of adrenaline, making him brave and bold. Because, flooded with the incredible, thrilling knowledge that Grog _wanted _him, he abandoned any sense of caution. He simply reached up and hooked a hand around the back of his neck.

“I know now,” he murmured, tugging him down.

Those electric, long-lashed, grey eyes fluttered closed. Those perfect lips parted, just a little. Two tentative hands landed on Shaun’s waist, not even holding him. Simply touching, as if Grog was scared to claim this. Scared to even _want _this.

Shaun let go of all his thoughts and worries and drew Grog closer. His own eyes slid shut. He felt the touch of breath on his lips. It was better than the heady call of the smoothest wine. Better than the thrill of magic flowing through his veins. Euphoria: embodied in that perfect, endless second before their lips would touch.

But then a resounding crash rocked the room.

Shaun and Grog jumped apart, without having kissed at all.

“Oh dear,” said Shaun. His magical barrier was splintering. “Perhaps now is not the time.”

“True,” Grog gasped. He pressed a hand to his pink cheeks. He looked as if he was trying to drag his brain back to reality. “We should- we should really go and fight.”

“We can take them down,” Shaun promised. “We can do this.”

“We can do anything,” said Grog.

His eyes were clear pools of silver, open straight down to his heart. The words were so sincere they almost hurt. They would linger long after any scars from this fight faded.

So Shaun pushed up on tiptoes before he lost his nerve, and planted a quick peck against Grog’s warm cheek. Then, flustered, he turned back to the door, wrapped his fists in tendrils of dark purple magic, in its purest form, and prepared for the barrier to snap.

It did so mere seconds later, right as Grog picked up his great axes again. And it did so with fanfare, blowing out so intensely that the whole building seemed to shake.

A crowd of figures were waiting on the stairs.

The fight resumed.

For a while, Shaun lost track of time and reason. His only focus was on beating back the onslaught, making sure the greater numbers below remained restricted by the stairs. He waited for an opening, when he and Grog might turn to escape out a window, or leap over the heads beneath them.

One of their attackers tried to bargain with Grog, telling him to step down.

“We _only _want Gilmore!” he promised.

Grog gifted that with a spit in the face.

A few of them wielded magic as well, similar to the wizard. Many more were shooting strange darts that took a long time to reload, which Shaun assumed were formed of poison. He managed to blast most of them back, while others missed him and Grog altogether, sticking in the doorway, or clattering to the floor.

The intruders kept calling to each other, encouragements and strange garbled cries that sounded almost like prayers. Shaun _was_ beginning to think they were fanatics. They were sticking of their task no matter who fell. They were single-minded.

And then one phrase cut through all the noise and chaos and struck him right in the heart. More powerful than darts and spells and weapons. More terrifying.

“I hate these bloody, damned, _runechildren._”

It was the hiss of a masked bowman, spitting the word like it was a slur. A curse.

And Shaun froze.

In that instant, he lost every bit of control he had. Over the situation. Over his courage. The next dart hit him neatly in the fleshy side of his neck.

The whole room faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments are fueling my entire life right now. keep them going and let me know what you think!


	11. Last Lament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go! the final chapter before the epilogue.... we're getting to it now...

Once Shaun fell, Grog was an easy target—his attention torn between his fear and his fight. The intruders soon struck him with a dart of his own. With two, in fact, when one didn’t seem to work.

He woke in the shattered wreckage of Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, downstairs, surrounded by members of the city guard. They must have carried him there, getting his unconscious body away from the evidence in the back. He had no idea how much time had passed, but night had fallen outside. Gone were any dreams of a romantic sunset picnic, overlooking rooftops painted in vibrant pink and gold. All he had was darkness.

“Shaun?” he mumbled. “Where—"

He tried to sit up, but foggy from the poison, he simply slipped right over.

The guards tried to calm him down. One had a familiar voice. Dimly, he realised it was Misty, who lived on his street.

“Misty,” he said desperately. “Where is he?”

She walked him outside and sat him on the edge of a garden bed.

“He’s gone, Grog. If we’re going to save him, we need to work out exactly what happened. You need to tell us _everything._”

“But I need go after him—”

“You can barely stand,” she said. “We’ve called for a cleric. I’ll take your statement while you get some care. Maybe after that you can do something.”

There was pity in her expression. Grog wanted to keep protesting, but when he tried to stand up a second time, his head spun, and his knees gave out. Furious, he sat still. The cleric arrived a moment later. She was a follower of Sarenrae, and the symbol hanging around her neck was the only thing that kept him in place.

It quickly became clear that his testimony matched the accounts given by other witnesses: nearby shop owners and passers-by. He only added a little more information, explaining the fight from the eyes of an active participant.

But he left out one detail—mind burning with the memory of Shaun trying to hide a glowing mark on his forehead, afraid even to speak of it with Vox Machina—explaining, so reluctantly, the strange, incomprehensible title of _runechild_.

The same title spat with such vitriol by one of the kidnappers.

Misty seemed satisfied when Grog was finished. His lie of omission passed by unnoticed and she went to speak with her fellow guards.

“Can I leave n—”

“Just a moment,” the cleric requested sweetly.

Grog turned his eyes to the ground to wait.

And he realised he was surrounded by flowers. Familiar ones. Only a couple of hours before, he’d been selecting them, one by one, from the garden. He’d intended to give them to Shaun. But when the explosion rang out, he abandoned the task. Now they were scattered, crumpled and wilting. Abandoned. Lonely.

The cleric raised her hands and he was flooded with a sensation of warm light that felt so similar to the one Pike always carried. It must have been the touch of the dawnflower. He could actually _feel _the poison withdrawing from his system.

With it gone, he sucked in a hungry breath.

He was strong again.

Grog thanked the cleric and went marching inside.

“I’m going after him,” he announced.

Misty and the other guards—a captain and a fellow solider—spun to look at him.

“Grog,” Misty began. “You—”

“Do you know who I am?” Grog asked the captain.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Then you know I’ve defeated gods and freed cities and killed dragons. I’m _going _to save Shaun. I have to.”

They exchanged glances. They clearly _did_ know who he was. His position as a member of Vox Machina never failed to buy him respect these days, even from these official types. He saw Misty sigh, and nod her head, a subtle vouching for his character. The captain nodded back.

“Alright,” she said. “I shouldn’t do this, but with your history… I’ll pass on some witness statements. Tell you which way they fled and our best indicators of where they were going. We can’t spare as many soldiers as I would like for this, so, I think Gilmore is lucky to have you.”

Grog squeezed his fists tight together and listened as carefully as he could while the captain read aloud to him from an official notebook. Every detail felt important. He simply _had to _understand it all.

“That’s all we have, sir,” the captain said. “Any questions?”

A path had been unfolding in Grog’s mind. His roaming instincts locked in with what he’d heard. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what to do, and where to go, and how to choose his next steps once the trail ran out. He couldn’t waste any more time on clarification.

“I’ve got it,” he promised. “Thank you.”

And he was off.

One more stop before he left Westruun—one concession to his need to move fast. He went by Wilhand’s house.

“Grog!” Grandpa Wilhand called the moment he heard the door open. “You’re home earlier than I expected. How did it go?”

For a moment, the question made no sense.

“Oh,” Grog said at last. “The date?”

He tried to rewind his thoughts.

A few hours back, he’d sat Wilhand down and told him what he intended to do. His only living father figure had been nothing but supportive, if a little nosy for details. He’d ushered Grog out of the house with a great deal of overlapping advice and well-meaning, embarrassing encouragement. Everything had felt much lighter then.

“Of course, the date!” Wilhand said. “I’ve been waiting up to hear everything. You told me very sweet things about this man. I hope I get to meet him again. I wasn’t paying enough attention when I thought he was just a fr—"

“We didn’t go out,” Grog blurted. “I mean- I wanted- but- there was a kind of an ambush and he- they took him. Grandpa Wilhand, do you have any paper?”

The old gnome looked alarmed. But he was accustomed enough to having adventurers around, so he went into action without asking questions, handing Grog a sheaf of paper and nodding at the ink well on his desk.

Grog stared at the daunting expanse of white. His desperation was a choking weight inside his chest.

He wrote; _Pike. Get VM. Find me. Shaun got took. Becoz of the purpl thing on his head. You know. _

It wasn’t very elegant. He didn’t care.

He folded it in half and gave it to Wilhand, with instructions to send it by any magical means possible, and gathered all his stuff. Then he found himself a cart, paid the amount asked with no haggling, and rushed out of the city.

His navigation was fairly easy from there. The rush of retreating kidnappers, with all their horses and wagons (some topped with cages, the reports had said, like they were made to transport animals) had poured out on the road heading south-east. A dozen little towns flickered through Grog’s mind. Then larger cities. Kymal. Even Emon, much further in that direction.

And though he hoped the kidnappers would stop a bit closer, and this rescue would happen sooner, something deep inside told him otherwise. One detail in every witness report had stuck with him—the people enclosing on the shop had been wearing designs of dragons and fire—embroidered and painted in red against their black clothing.

He thought of Thordak. He grit his teeth, and nudged his horses onward.

…

Shaun woke with a spinning head. His surroundings were dimly lit, black and underground, marked by flickering firelight, so it took an extra minute for his eyes to process everything.

His hands were bound, his mouth gagged, snatching away his verbal and somatic spells. He was trapped in a cage, on the back of an unmoving wagon, parked against the far wall of the strange, dark room. He shuffled as best he could, peering through the bars. Something about the location struck him as familiar. Yet his thoughts were muddled by whatever drug the darts had fed into his body.

In the centre of the cavern, cloaked figures were shuffling around. There were piles of stone lying everywhere. And a deep pit, which was letting off all the light in the room, blazing with low, intense fire.

It came to him, suddenly. The flame. The rocky walls. He’d been here before.

This was Thordak’s old lair, under Emon. It’d been partially collapsed and the ground above restructured after the dragon died, of course. But apparently, this pocket had remained. And these people, for whatever reason, had taken it.

Shaun turned his head a little further, peering at the edges of the room, trying to spot where the exit was, since the old one was covered over. And he found a more horrifying sight. One that made his blood run cold.

There were two more cages to his left.

In one, a woman in her fifties was chained, staring intently at the figures moving around the fire. Three bright, golden runes marked her body: temple, palm, and exposed collarbone. In the other, a small girl was huddled, asleep, clutching a blanket around her shoulders. Her cheeks were stained with tears. On her forehead shone a rune of blue.

Shaun cleared his throat. The woman started and looked over. Immediately, she attempted to scramble to the edge of her cage. She nodded at the girl, in between them, trying to communicate something. Shaun understood. He nodded back. The kid was the priority now. They would protect her.

Unfortunately, the figures by the bed of burning coals had also heard his cough. They sprang to their feet and came to the edge of his cage. Shaun recognised the man who’d led the back-up gang into his shop: Marquesian, slender, and greying at the temples. Despite appearing human, there was something off about his sharp face—a hint of ravenous emptiness—like fire that could burn forever.

“Hello, Gilmore,” he said.

Shaun, of course, could not reply. He settled for an eyebrow raise. Perfectly scornful.

“My name is Ethseem,” the man said. “You put up quite the fight. Killed my best wizard. But no matter. His body has gone to the flames and we have you now.”

He grinned. Shaun wished he could respond. But he had bigger problems. Two of the figures were opening his cage. One stepped inside, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him forward. He considered struggling, but weak from poison, and tied up, he knew it would be no use. It would only be humiliating.

Indeed, Ethseem looked disappointed by the lack of passion. He flicked his fingers in a neat movement Shaun knew well. An immobilising spell locked him in place.

Ethseem’s hand grasped his chin, forcing his head up. The other people in the cavern were now gathering to watch.

Shaun felt hopelessly uncomfortable, vulnerable, frightened. He hated _that_ the most—the twisting in his stomach—the way this got to him. Ethseem uncorked a vial, and with a savage smile, tipped its contents down Shaun’s throat.

Shaun couldn’t even move. Couldn’t gag. Frigid liquid poured into his stomach. A taste he’d never experienced before. He felt his mental battle intensify like a physical sensation tapping against his skull, as his thoughts tried to push against a two-fold intrusion. But he couldn’t buck off the paralysing spell _and_ the potion.

The magic took effect. It ripped through his system and lit him up from the inside out, igniting a conflicting sense of power and… helplessness.

He could feel, more strongly than ever, the wealth of the arcane ability embedded in his bones. Yet he knew he couldn’t access it . He couldn’t do _anything. _

And his runes burst to life over his skin.

“Brilliant,” Ethseem said. “It doesn’t matter how you hide them, they’re always there, lurking beneath.”

He pushed his thumb against the mark on Shaun’s forehead. Then his eyes moved down, wide and impressed when he spotted so many runes. He touched the one on Shaun’s chest too, right over his heart, sending a jolt of sickness through him. Trailed his fingers down the three on the right arm, the two on the left. The others, thankfully, were hidden under clothes.

“No wonder you gave us such trouble,” Ethseem marvelled. “You must be powerful.”

“He had to be,” spat one of the others. “To have aided _them_ in killing our king.”

The rest hissed in agreement.

Ethseem shot them a soothing look.

“He will have his comeuppance for that,” he swore. “And his involvement in the battle with Thordak did us some good, did it not? Or no one would have spotted him with that rune out in public.”

He jabbed the forehead rune again, hard enough to make Shaun’s eyes fill with tears. He hoped, in the dim light, no one could see it.

He cursed himself for that day. When Vox Machina had pointed out the glyph, and he made it vanish once again, they’d been in the centre of the city, after a loud and prominent fight. It should have occurred to him that others might be watching. He’d just been so focused on telling his friends about his deepest secret…

(_Your word is safe with us, _Grog had promised, so sweet and sincere. _Because I don’t know what you’re talking about. _

If only Shaun had kissed him then. If only he’d known, that long ago, what Grog would come to mean to him. Then they might have had more time together. If Shaun was about to die…)

“Right,” Esthseem said. “Let’s return to preparations. We need to make the sacrifice as soon as possible, in case that goliath creature wakes and gives chase.”

Shaun’s spirits soared. Grog was alive. He could be assured of that, at least.

“We should have killed him,” someone said.

“No. We will not take Thordak’s revenge from him. _He_ will hunt his killers when he awakes.”

“But I don’t like leaving witnesses.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ who knows we’re here. It doesn’t matter who comes after us. Once our king is alive, we will be untouchable. All we need is the ritual.”

With those haunting words, the kidnappers walked back to the pit of flame. Shaun still couldn’t move, but he watched. He listened. Ethseem picked up a thin, leather-bound tome, and began to read out loud from its pages.

“_And then you will know the ways of the gods of smoke and fire.” _His voice filled the cavern. “_You will see whose hearts are open by their reaction to the lure of the flame. These—who worship by firepits and lay sacrifices to blaze—are your allies, even if they know it not. These, you can covert.” _

Shaun’s stomach lurched. That was far too familiar. Exactly like the ideology spouted at the Suuthan riots.

_“Others must be purged from the world,” _Ethseem continued. _“Burnt away to gift their bodies and souls to divine truth. They will think their passing is a curse—this sacred burning so desired by our people—but, in the end, their feelings do not matter. The power of the fire will consume us all.”_

The others murmured a prayer, a fevered response that echoed off the walls.

“Now,” said Ethseem. “We read of the runechildren and pray that the gods of smoke and fire come upon our chamber, to bless our great ritual: our sacrifice.”

His people let out another howl of assent.

And he read, on and on, in convoluted winding passages. Such a style added to the manic feeling of the crowd. It also wasted so much time that Shaun’s mind bucked his paralysis spell. Yet he was still bound and gagged. Still helpless.

Ethseem read that the runechildren were gifts from the gods, marked so visibly with great power to be conduits of magic, for the use and pleasure of the faithful. They were not normal mortals with souls, the text promised, but a personification of magic, so artificial that they manifested runes and glyphs upon their very skin.

Shaun looked over at the little girl, who had stirred and woken with the rising excitement in the chamber. Her eyes were wide—so utterly, heart-breakingly mortal. She must have been barely four years old. Younger than he was, when his magic manifested.

He shuffled as close as he could against his bars and tried to give her a reassuring look. It was so difficult, to be bound, unable to reach out. But her eyes fixed on him, and desperate hope crossed her expression as she took in each of his displayed runes.

Estheem’s voice was still pouring through the chamber.

Apparently, the prophet who wrote the tome had been visited in visions by figures made of flame. They encouraged him to hunt the runechildren. If he could find enough, who carried at least seven runes between them, he was told to feed them to the fire. When the marked bodies burned, they would open a gateway to unimaginable power, smoke rising and twining with the desires of the cult. The ritual could grant wishes, and construct armies, and most importantly, it could wake up lost divinities.

Like, perhaps, the form of an ancient red dragon, who some believed to be a god.

Shaun’s head was swirling with ideas—plots, and plans, and ways to escape. Yet most required the use of his magic, or at the very least, the use of his voice.

It seemed like it might be too late for that. Some of the cultists approached his cage. They unbolted the door, dragged him out, and carried him to the firepit. He could feel his heart begin to pound against his ribs.

Images of Grog flushed through his mind, so resilient, so determined. A force of chaos on the battlefield. A man who navigated under stars and tore through enemies like they were nothing. His only hope.

Or, at the very least, a last comforting thought to take with him.

“Prepare to counterspell,” Ethseem told his gathered wizards. “Remove the gag.”

Two cultists freed Shaun’s mouth.

“How many runes do you have?” Ethseem asked.

Shaun debated refusing to answer.

Ethseem sighed. “We will strip you naked if—”

“I have fourteen,” he growled.

A frantic murmur passed through the room. Ethseem looked ecstatic. Hungry.

“If we’d known that, we wouldn’t have needed to collect _three _of you,” he laughed. “Yet I’m glad we got them anyway. More power for us. Now, Gilmore, will you give your life willingly to the flames.”

“_No_,” he said, astounded they would ask.

“We’ll just have to take it then,” Ethseem said. “Bring me the next!”

The cultists advanced on the child.

“I know where you learned about the runechildren!” Shaun shouted, reaching for his first instinct. “I know you’re Marquesian and you followed Suuthan. You’ve betrayed your old god, coming here.”

Ethseem turned on him. His face was carved of stone, his eyes burning within.

“Clever man,” he murmured. “Yet how little you understand. Suuthan is but one incarnation of the god of flame. Our great dragon is another, radiant with scarlet fire, who chose this sweet land to burn. You may have noticed his task is still incomplete.”

The flames lit half of Ethseem’s face in red. The other side stayed in shadow.

“Why switch loyalties though?” Shaun pressed. “You have a large cult in Suuthan. More famous than this one.”

That struck a nerve.

“The faithful in Suuthan are _cowards _and _fools _who don’t understand what they have. A little backlash against their riots and they were frightened back to their place on the mountainside. They worship the volcano in secret. They turn away from the teachings of the book. After I heard of Thordak’s death, I left them. I came to revive the his followers and show them there is still hope.”

“What book are you talking about?” Shaun asked. “It can’t be that important, if no one’s heard of it.”

He could see the reverence in Ethseem’s eyes. He knew this was the best chance to stall him, and better yet, to learn more about the tome. He had to know if it was the only one. He had to know if its destruction would mean safety—freeing people like him from its particular brand of evil. 

Ethseem took the bait.

“The book was written by a prophet from the Age of Arcanum. A genius who understood divinity like no one else.” His tone was full of pride. “I was its keeper at Suuthan—the only person alive who is allowed to read it—so I took it when I left. It has become a part of me. Soon, the flames will answer _my _call.”

“But—”

“I tire of your interruptions!” Ethseem snapped. “Your only job here is to _die_.”

And the cultists yanked the gag back into Shaun’s mouth again. They checked his bonds were holding him tight, including the new one, which fastened him to a loop imbedded in the floor. Next, they dragged the child from her cage. Her lower lip was trembling, but she didn’t scream. She stood up tall and proud, the hem of her dress covered in soot.

The older woman tried much harder to escape. She trashed and threw her elbows out, until they had to cast _hold person_ on her, one of them cradling a black eye. They didn’t bother binding her feet.

“As we prepare to feed the runechildren to the flame,” Estheem called, voice bouncing around the chamber. “We recite our final prayer.”

Their voices rose together, the noise of them so overwrought and hysterical they seemed to echo through bone.

Shaun closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He turned his focus where it mattered, glad to be unbound by magical means, and subtly shuffled closer to the girl. She looked up at him, then shifted as well, so that her shoulder leaned on his leg, her weight rested against him. She raised her bound hands and clutched the fabric of his robe. He felt her exhale, just a fraction less tense.

Then he saw it.

A flash of grey and black crossed his periphery—a large figure outlined against a fragment of light from a tunnel, which must lead to the outside world. He would know that shape anywhere.

Grog had arrived.

…

Grog crept down the passage he’d discovered, a scattering of knocked-out guards left far behind him. The path ahead was strangely empty, echoing with a haunting, chanted prayer, rising goosebumps on his arms.

When the tunnel opened wider, he hunched low and peered into the chamber beyond. He found it lit with fire, painted in sharp angles and red-gold shapes. Figures were gathered around a massive pit, from which the flames seemed to originate, with one man standing on a pedestal before them, a book clutched in his hands, his face wreathed in shadows and composed of fanaticism. Almost inhuman.

And then Grog spotted Shaun.

Several glowing runes stood out against his skin, presumably against his will. But that wasn’t even the worst part, because Shaun was gagged and bound, and there were two others in the same state beside him. One was a child. She looked so small, curled as close as she could to Shaun, jutting out her chin like she was trying to be brave.

Luck was on their side though—the cultists hadn’t spotted their new visitor. Their eyes were closed in ecstasy.

When Grog stepped forward, he saw Shaun’s head tilt in his direction. He inhaled, made eye contact, and gave a firm, tight-jawed nod. A silent vow. Shaun winked in return. It was enough to make his heart flutter. Enough to make him believe they’d be okay.

He just had to get past the line of cultists standing between them.

Grog tilted his weight and drew out his favourite great axe. He had other weapons too, in case he needed them. But he would like to start this way. He took a second deep breath, ready to plough out his path.

Then someone yelled; “intruder!”

And he was out of time. He leapt into action in the seconds of surprise he had to spare, slashing his axe through the ranks of the enemy, so they were either caught by its edge, or forced to flee. The few who didn’t move were simply slammed by his body as he sprinted through.

He felt grasping hands from a few brave souls. None took hold.

He skidded to a stop beside the prisoners, and in one fell swoop, sliced apart the bonds binding Shaun and the child to the floor. With a careful manoeuvre of the axe’s blade, he got their hands off next. The room was a roar of noise and chaos behind him. He could hear the leading man screeching orders.

Shaun tore out his gag.

“Turn around,” he said. “Keep the crowd back if you can. I have to get these two out.”

Grog appreciated that—the trust—Shaun not holding him back out of fear. He whirled on the crowd and roared, another swing of his axe warning them what would happen if they came any closer.

…

Shaun scooped up the girl, dispelled the magic locking the other sorcerer in place, and burned through the rope around her wrists with the quick heat of prestidigitation.

“Thank you,” she gasped, tearing out her gag the second she was free. She jerked her head toward Grog. “You’ve got a good ally there.”

_He’s more than an ally, _Shaun thought. _More, even, than a friend._

But there was no point explaining. Instead, he continued with what mattered: the child they had to save.

“Can you get her out of here?”

“Yes. I know dimension door. Will you be—”

“We’ll be fine,” Shaun said.

Behind him, he could hear his companion hard at work, huffing with exertion as he cut down anyone who dared approach. Then there was a gasp, a familiar crackle. Grog was taking the impact of a lightning bolt. Shaun had to help.

He tried to pass the girl on, but she clung to his robe.

“Go with our friend, my dear. She can save you,” he soothed.

The child looked up at him with brittle courage in her bright brown eyes.

“I want to save you too,” she said.

His throat tightened.

“That’s not your job,” he whispered, gentle as he could. “I’ll follow you soon, though. I will.”

Very reluctantly, she let go. And _dimension door_ swallowed the only two runechildren Shaun had ever met.

The room rang with a furious scream from Ethseem, to see two prizes vanish with a single spell. But Shaun knew the cultists wouldn’t lose hope. Not when he was there. Not when he still had more than seven runes for them to spend.

He turned to see Grog crumpled from the lightning bolt. From multiple strikes, perhaps. And the boldest figures in the crowd were rushing at him, weapons drawn. Shaun tossed a fireball in their direction, forcing them to duck.

“You okay?” he said.

“Peachy.”

Grog straightened up again. He grabbed a dagger that someone had struck him with and hurled it into the crowd, with such force it took an archer directly in the eye.

Ethseem, face scarlet with firelight and fury, was reaching for his magic now. Riding on adrenaline, Shaun reacted quickly, with a counterspell. A half-way finished _blight_ died in the air between them.

He smiled.

The other cultists were still reshuffling for the fight, sending their warriors to the front, making space for their ranged attackers.

But they wouldn’t reach their places in time. Shaun had a plan. He would teleport out of the room with Grog. Then, when the cultists thought they were gone for good, he would dimension door back into the cavern, snatch the book, and vanish properly.

He laid his hands against Grog’s back, ready to cast. The familiar sensation buzzed up through the balls of his feet, where he was grounded, and swelled across his body—

Something cut through the magic. Harsh and searing. Ethseem’s own counterspell.

“Fuck,” Shaun said.

He’d expended the spell already. It was lost. Nothing he could do about it now.

Grog swung forward and battered back more of their enemies. He grunted in pain as a sword sliced into his arm, parting muscle. He kicked its wielder across the room.

When he danced back into place, Shaun reached for dimension door on instinct, then pulled up short. He couldn’t bring Grog through. The first time he’d ever encountered someone too big to fit his door. It was so frustrating he wanted to yell. To shout and scream and destroy something.

Despite himself, he let out a growl.

“What’s wrong?” said Grog.

“Can’t teleport.”

“Then we fight. I sent a message. The others will come. We just have to hold out.”

It was the kind of blind faith that made Shaun’s heart soar.

The fight may seem overwhelming—with dozens of enemies in front and fire behind and pain lurking at every turn. But Grog was there, and Grog believed their family would come. And Grog was _fighting. _So Shaun found his pattern, and settled into it. Easy as breathing.

His fingers brushed Grog’s back, sharing _haste _with him.

“Oh, that feels good,” Grog said, voice rumbling.

“Do some damage for me.”

…

Grog tried to think smart, but he was angry—angrier, perhaps, than he had ever been. The idea of Shaun almost being killed, in what looked like some horrible ritual sacrifice, was almost more than he could stand. And he wanted to destroy the people who’d attempted it.

As he swept his axe to the right, he felt Shaun turn on his heel on the left, and his peripheral vision filled with the electric blue of a lightning bolt.

“It’s so hot when _you_ do it,” he said.

“Flirting?” Shaun teased. “At a time like th—”

But he was halted, midsentence, by a blast of Ethseem’s magic hitting him square in the face.

“Everybody, freeze!” Ethseem yelled.

His tone was triumphant. His followers, somehow, despite the chaos, fell utterly silent. Grog could _feel _the blood rushing in his ears. He could hear fire crackling and heavy breathing. Nothing else.

Shaun was staring at him. Completely still. As if waiting for something.

“Shaun?” Grog whispered.

“Don’t bother fighting them now,” Ethseem told his people. “Gilmore will destroy his friend for us. Then he’ll walk over here like a good boy, allow me to tie him up, and we can toss him into the fire.”

“What the hell are you talking—” Grog began.

But his question was answered. Shaun shifted to an offensive stance and slammed a fireball directly into his stomach.

Up so close, the impact was enough to take Grog off his feet. He flew down the raised stairs beside the firepit and into the crowd. Cultists parted like water, giving him space. He turned quickly on his stomach, pushing himself upright.

His usual instinct would be to strike back. But his axe looked too vicious and deadly beside the face so dear to him. He dropped it on the floor. He stepped tentatively forward.

“Shaun, you—”

There was a knife in Shaun’s hand, picked up from somewhere, to save his spells. He slashed toward Grog with it. Grog barely managed to dodge.

“Shaun, don’t—”

Another slash. The man he loved so much reduced to a blank face and quick hands.

“Oh, and Shaun?” Ethseem drawled. “Do enjoy yourself.”

Suddenly, Shaun smiled. It was a perversion, without any of its usual spirit—without the shine and crinkle in the eyes. Simply an instruction followed.

He called down a lightning bolt again. Grog hissed out a breath as it hit.

“Use your high spells, please, my boy,” said Ethseem. “I’d like that dimension door used up by the time we get to you.”

“Of course,” Shaun answered.

And he chose dimension door right away, vanishing in a flash of purple and appearing right over Grog’s shoulder. Jamming his knife into the centre of Grog’s back.

Grog dropped, rolled, crying out in pain. The stress of the situation was really getting to him. His mind was scrambled with a thousand thoughts and he’d lost his rage entirely. He knew what he would do in a normal fight. But this_ wasn’t _a normal fight. This was Shaun, mind-controlled, but still so precious. Whatever Grog did to him would be _real_. It would carry through after this fight was over.

And, gods, Shaun was going to feel guilty. Grog knew what it was like, to be on the other side of this, with no control of what your body was doing and who it was hurting. He knew the agony that came with waking.

Another spell rippled over him, putting pressure on his skull. But he shook it off. His thoughts were currently spinning so fast he doubted even magic could grasp onto them.

“Shaun,” he said slowly. “It’s me. You know me. I really can’t hurt you, and I know you don’t mean to hurt m-me—”

He stammered, as Shaun vanished, and appeared behind him once again. He managed to dodge the attack this time. Thank goodness the _haste_ spell was still working.

“So don’t feel guilty, once I wake you. Okay? Because I am going to wake you. I am. I am.”

Shaun chuckled, the sound cold and twisted. Grog wracked his brains, trying to remember how he’d been woken up, all those times that magic took his mind from him. He remembered something Scanlan said, about how you have a new chance to break free from spells like that if you get hit.

He just had to make Shaun feel a flash of pain.

And unlike with him, it would probably only take one try. Grog was certain. Shaun was so clever and strong-willed and wonderful and—

He slammed Grog with another spell. Fire bolt, this time. Not so bad at its larger variation. Grog was able to stay on his feet. He glanced around, to the crowd who were now watching smugly, and he spotted exactly what he needed. A staff. The perfect weapon for a quick knock to the head.

He ripped it out of the hands of its owner.

“Stop him!” Ethseem yelled.

But no one was quick enough. Grog spun and whacked his new toy as hard as he dared against the side of Shaun’s head.

Shaun came to an abrupt stop. He blinked, hard, something clearing from his face.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Grog…”

Tears filled his eyes.

“Don’t!” Grog said, hyperaware of the hostile crowd surrounding them “Don’t be upset. We have to—”

And at that exact moment, they were saved.

An enormous rumble echoed through the cavern, the sound of grinding, shifting rock above them. There were screams from the cultists, as if they thought some dark force had come to destroy their sanctuary. A hole in the ceiling peeled away as though it were made of clay.

Keyleth was standing, hands raised overhead, like moving stone was easy. Around her, the other members of Vox Machina waited, resplendent in their armour, backed by sunlight, ready to rescue their friends.

…

“What’s up, sexy bastards?” Scanlan yelled down. “Ready to kick some dragon-licking ass?”

As usual, his light demeanour cut through the tension of the fight, buoying their confidence. Shaun tried to shake off the last sluggishness of the mind control.

But he could still see the deep stab-wound beside Grog’s spine, restricting his movement, pouring blood. Made by his hands. Thankfully, Pike healed it the second she landed on her feet beside them, while Percy knocked over three of the leading cultists in a single round of shooting and Vex peppered several more with arrows.

And everything began to turn in their favour.

Shaun drew his magic back around himself again and, just for the hell of it, expended a rune to deflect the next round of damage set against him. He’d been quite horrified, really, with the potion that forced his runes to charge and appear. But now he realised its bonus side effect—he got to use up all that stored power.

The fight began to flow beautifully. Vex was soaring overhead on her broomstick, arrows arching over the cultists, while a second set of ranged attacks flew in from Percy, perched by the edge of the new skylight. Allura and Kima stood back to back, a radiant stream of spells on one side, while the other was a mess of quick movement and slashes of a sword. Somewhere among the crowd, Pike’s shining mace was letting off a glow. Scanlan’s voice rose, echoing through the space, as lovely as Ethseem’s had been terrible.

Then Keyleth’s lithe form billowed out into the shape of a fire elemental. Half the cultists fell to their knees at the sight, pleading and weeping, taking it as a sign of their god.

Not Ethseem though.

And that’s who Shaun was watching. He and Grog had fallen back into their pattern of fighting, shifting around each other like connected forces, gravitating in the same direction.

Ethseem was screaming orders at the group. But when he saw them coming closer, he raised a hand to teleport away. The somatic movements yielded no effect. Realisation dawned in his expression.

“You used that magic to counterspell me,” Shaun reminded him.

Furious, Ethseem tried to slam an attack their way. It would have hit Grog, but Shaun, moving with the flow of their fight, shifted in front of him, and expended a rune to absorb as much damage as he could.

Ethseem’s face paled. His eyes were fixed on the wrist where the rune had vanished.

He tried to open a dimension door. This time the counterspell came from Scanlan. He spun, horrified, between the gnome, and the fight his people were losing, and the deadly pair that Shaun and Grog had now become, advancing, unstoppable, in his direction.

“Stop!” Ethseem yelled. “I command you- I- I- _Thordak, _god of smoke and fire, I beseech you. Strike down this runechild! Let me feed him to you!”

Grog swept the legs out from under the last of Ethseem’s defenders. At the same time, Shaun lit another firebolt in his hands, and stepped neatly into the cleared space. He looked Ethseem right in the eye.

“Thordak is dead,” he said.

And he thrust his spell forward.

It didn’t land on Ethseem. That wasn’t his goal. It hit the book in the cultist’s hands, lighting it with flame and tearing it from his grasp.

Shaun’s eyes tracked its path, desperate for it to be gone, needing to see it happen. He stood completely still, and felt Grog moving around him, defending him from whoever had decided to take advantage of the moment.

The old tome landed in the firepit—not even in the centre. There was no poetic, meaningful ending for the religious text rife with evil and discrimination. It burned messily, paper and binding consumed unevenly by the intense heat.

Ethseem howled.

“Give yourselves to the flame!” he began to scream to his followers. “Follow the last plan. Destroy this place and take our enemies with us. One runechild with still die, and Thordak will return. With fourteen runes, we might even rise alongside him!”

Then he leapt into the flames.

“Shit,” Grog said.

Ethseem’s long black robes were already alight. He was forced to his knees in the fire.

Shaun couldn’t even look at him. His eyes were on the tome, still. And at last, in a curl of black paper, even its remnants sank to ash.

He slumped with relief. Grog caught him, arm around his waist.

“It’s not over,” he said.

The cultists were running forward now, believing all hope to be lost. They started to hurl themselves into the fire after their leader. But some went to the edges of the room, grabbing long ropes, lighting them like candle wicks.

“Uh, guys?” Percy shouted overhead, eyes skirting the room. “They’ve rigged the chamber to collapse!”

Shaun and Grog pushed against the flow of people aiming for the firepit, and sprinted to the middle of the room, where all their friends were converging. Vex flew out on her broomstick overhead, yanking her husband back.

“Dammit,” Keyleth hissed, dropping elemental form. “I knew I should have removed the whole roof.”

“Just grab on,” Pike said.

Once all their hands were clasped, Allura closed her eyes, and ignited her own magic. The entire group teleported out, right as stone exploded overhead, swallowing the place where they’d been standing.

…

The spell set them on their feet in the streets above.

Grog blinked in the bright sunlight, barely able to take in anything beyond the fact that they were safe. His friends dropped hands and started cheering, full of laughter and relief. But his fingers were still twined with Shaun’s.

They turned to face each other, breathing heavily, eyes shining.

And, as if he couldn’t possibly contain himself another second, Shaun threw his arms around Grog’s neck and crashed their lips together.

Grog inhaled sharply, absorbing the shock, the incredulity, the sheer delight. Then he sank into the kiss. He gave himself over to the intoxicating thrill of its sensations. His broad, blessed hands clutched Shaun’s waist, drawing him closer, lifting him, just slightly, off his feet. He felt Shaun’s arms wrap tighter at the nape of his neck. Felt a smile against his lips.

“Mm,” Shaun hummed appreciation, the sound reverberating where their chests were pressed together.

And then his tongue was in Grog’s mouth. And time halted in endless perfection.

It was all their desperation and pent up desire and longing, released in a single moment. It hit Grog deeper than every other kiss of his entire life combined.

When they parted, they were breathing harder than they had after the fight, smiling uncontrollably.

Scanlan wolf-whistled.

“Holy fuck, we’re in _public,_” Kima said.

“You could always look away,” Shaun suggested.

He looked radiant. His hair was tousled, his lips shining, and his forehead rune glowing soft against the deep brown of his skin. He kissed Grog again—a shorter, sweeter one this time—a promise of many more to come.

Then they finally let each other go.

Grog turned to acknowledge his friends, scooping Pike into his arms while Shaun spun to envelop Keyleth, murmuring his thanks over and over. And everyone gathered to join the hug. They became a muddle of limbs, and affectionate words, and cheesy forehead kisses.

Grog was surprised to see Vex and Percy already in their midst.

“How’d you get here?” he asked.

Vex laughed at him.

“Allura only teleported you guys like a block from Thordak’s lair,” she said. “We arranged this meeting place before we joined the fight. Look around, darling.”

And sure enough, they were still standing in the centre of Emon. Dust rose along the end of the street, where the ground had collapsed, the distant sound of shouts bouncing off buildings.

“Oh,” he said. “I was a bit distracted.”

“You don’t say,” Vex smirked.

By that point, everyone seemed to have finished their group hug. They were demanding more information on what had actually happened. Shaun began to explain the attack on the store, and the targeting of his runechild status, and the all-too-familiar prophet’s tome from Saffron City.

“Shit,” Keyleth said, gripping his arm. “Your runes are still out!”

Shaun chuckled awkwardly. But he didn’t dismiss them. He rubbed his brow with his thumb.

“Actually, I think I want to start wearing them more.”

“Like, in public?” Vex said.

“Yes.” Shaun squared his shoulders. He looked so brave and noble. “If this experience taught me anything, it’s that secrets can get out more easily than you think. I would much rather be the one controlling my own narrative.”

“Won’t it be dangerous?” Percy asked.

“Potentially,” Shaun said. “But something changed today. These-these cultists were using an old book written by a prophet. It contained the only organised encouragement to hunt runechildren that I’ve ever heard used in this age. And I destroyed it. _We_ destroyed it.”

He twined his fingers with Grog’s again, and Grog was overwhelmed by pride. He almost wanted to cry.

“It occurs to me,” Shaun continued. “That I could slowly come out of hiding now. I won’t tell anyone the cult wanted to _sacrifice_ me. People might assume the kidnapping was fuelled by the ideas from the Age of Arcanum, when runechildren were used as- as arcane batteries of sorts, but at least most scholars of the arcane have already heard about that, and agree it’s an archaic concept. Hopefully, this new fanaticism will fade into obscurity. And perhaps, with a little normalisation, all runechildren could start appearing in public. Perhaps we could all be safe.”

“You _are_ a prominent figure in the magical community,” Allura said. “If anyone could change those prejudices, it would be you. And I’ll support you all the way.”

“Thank you,” Shaun said. Then his voice lightened. “And besides, I have some wonderful protection if things do turn out for the worst again.”

They laughed.

“It _is_ strange,” Vex mused. “We’re technically retired from adventuring now. But it seems like near death experiences will always be somewhere on the horizon.”

“Hm,” Percy agreed. “Like our vow renewal.”

“And now Shaun’s kidnapping,” Vex said. “It sets precedent for an occasional, unpredictable return to the battlefield.”

“To be honest?” Pike said. “I don’t mind that.”

“It’s fucking fun,” Kima agreed.

“Yeah,” Grog grinned. “And with a family like ours, it’s hard to be worried.”

That provoked another hug, his friends deliberately overreacting to how sappy he sounded. He tried to shake them off.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “We’ve gotta be responsible too. There’re other escaped captives to check up on, and the deaths of a bunch of cultists to confirm, and we should probably tell the rest of the council…”

“Someone’s showing off for his new boyfriend,” Scanlan said.

But they knew Grog had a point. So away they went.

While they wondered through the streets, seeking the other runechildren, it was Pike’s turn to talk. She explained how she’d received Grog’s letter through magical means. She described the use of the summoning stones to get the rest of the group together. And she laid out how a quick scry by Keyleth and Allura had located Grog right as he leapt into the fray.

“I almost had a heart attack when I recognised Thordak’s lair!” Keyleth said.

“Yeah, she keeled over backward,” Scanlan said.

He dramatically re-enacted the scene, and she chased him down the road, making him shriek. Still behaving like children, no matter all their daring deeds and their hero’s status. Just the way Grog liked it.

As they walked, Shaun reached up for his hand again. The shared a small, secret smile.

Despite everything they still had to do—all the new loose ends to tie—Grog finally felt as though his life was falling into place. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it laid out before him, full of daring adventures, and playful fun, and the kind of peace that would sooth his very soul.

He knew everything would be okay.

…

The day was long, considering Shaun already felt so drained from his kidnapping. But he didn’t complain. He had Grog’s hand to hold.

First on the agenda, they found the other runechildren. They were well-hidden, tucked into a shop owned by one of the older woman’s friends. Shaun might have walked right past, if she hadn’t been looking for him out the window, calling out as soon as she spotted him. She trusted the others by mere association.

“It’s so good to see you made it,” she said, once they were all inside. “My name is Kaythe, by the way, and the young one is Nanisha.”

“I’m Gilmore,” Shaun said.

He could see Nanisha standing in the back corner for the room, her tiny fists clenched, her blue rune still aglow. In the daylight, her features were clearer: golden brown skin, a smattering of freckles, and incredible, dark, expressive eyes.

“You’re not dead,” she said. She was blinking back tears, determined to be brave. “Everyone dies.”

Shaun was troubled by the statement. He bent down, and opened his arms, and she ran into them. While he cradled her close, he explained how his friends had come to help him. They waved gentle greetings, Grog especially starry-eyed.

Nanisha looked at them as if every single one had god-like status in her mind.

“I know who you are,” she whispered.

“Really?”

“My friends’ve met you,” she said.

It seemed like that was all she was willing to say. So Kaythe explained. She’d discovered a lot about the child since escaping the dragon’s den.

Apparently, Nanisha was an orphan. She’d been living in a children’s home near the middle of Emon ever since she could remember. But soon after she turned four, her first magic had come out, and her rune manifested. The people running the home had been overwhelmed and horrified. Unwilling to take responsibility, they’d transferred her to the Greyskull Keep foundation. There, all the other children told her stories of Vox Machina.

It was sad, and infuriating, and heart-warming all at once.

“Do you like it at Greyskull Keep?” Shaun asked.

“Yes,” Nanisha said softly. “It’s much nicer than the other place.”

“That’s good.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “We have some things to sort out, okay? So we might have to leave. But we’ll come visit you.”

She looked at him, like she was measuring how honest he was.

“Okay,” she said.

Next, Shaun and his friends went back to Thordak’s lair. The ground had well-and-truly caved in this time. A crowd was gathering to peer into the hole. Some of the other council members had already arrived—the ones based nearby in Emon.

Vox Machina and co. rushed to join them and explained what they could of the day’s events. As planned, they avoided any mentions of the prophet’s tome, but they spoke of the cultists-turned-kidnappers who had been worshipping Thordak underground, and Shaun revealed his runechild status for the first time. He vaguely alluded that he’d been taken because of it. He was relieved to be met with nothing but respect.

“I can’t imagine the blow to our community, had you been lost,” ­­­­Seeker Assum said. “Please, go and get some rest and recovery. We’ll be delivering statements to the public this evening, but don’t feel you have to be there. You look exhausted.”

“I _would_ prefer for this kidnapping not to be, uh, directly associated with my being a runechild,” Shaun admitted.

“Of course,” Assum agreed. “No one needs that anachronistic bigotry revived.”

Shaun smiled. They had made the assumption he hoped. Everything was working out.

And he’d been given the rest of the day to himself.

His friends followed him back to his home in Emon. He brought out the tea kettle, and everyone pitched in to rustle up a meal. It was simple and cosy and comfortable. It was exactly what Shaun needed. And, for the whole evening, Grog was sitting close beside him—their thighs brushing, their hands linked whenever possible, smiles jumping to their lips every time they glanced at one another.

When night fell, people began to leave. Vex and Percy used a teleportation rune to get back to their daughter in Whitestone and the others were invited to sleep at Kima and Allura’s. But Grog hovered uncertainly, clearing wishing he didn’t have to go.

“Please stay,” Shaun said, emboldened by the vulnerability on that handsome face. “I- I would love to talk with you a little longer.”

Grog’s eyes shone.

“Okay,” he said.

Their friends were pretty obnoxious when they parted, telling them to “have fun” and making all sorts of suggestive comments. But it was hard to be annoyed when they all looked so genuinely encouraging and excited. When the door shut behind them, Shaun let out a sigh, melting back into his couch.

He turned to Grog.

“So,” he said. “We’re alone.”

“We are.”

“A lot happened today,” Shaun said. “I… can hardly believe we’re here.”

“Me neither,” Grog said.

He was looked at Shaun like he could never get enough of it—like this was a dream that threatened to fade away. Shaun angled his body toward him, crossing his legs, tilting into Grog’s space. Grog reached for his hand again.

“How do you feel, after the mind control?” Grog asked. “It’s just, I know what it’s like, having spells like that put on you. Waking up is never… nice.”

“Oh,” Shaun felt his cheeks heat. He stared down at their linked fingers. “I- I’m okay, Grog. Really. It’s—"

“Shaun.”

“I don’t want you to worry.”

“Look at me.”

Shaun managed to make eye contact. Grog looked so sincere.

“If this,” He gestured to their clasped hands, “is going to happen, I need to make something clear.”

“Of course.”

“When you look into my eyes, you can- you can see everything, right? What I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, laid out in the open.”

Shaun’s chest was flooded with tenderness.

“Yes,” he said softly. “At least, now that I know it’s not just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking?”

“I mean I, uh, used to think it was all in my head, and I’d try to convince myself there was no way you’d ever really like me.”

“You thought _I _could never like _you,_” Grog gasped.

“Of course!”

“That’s amazingly clueless,” Grog said, grinning now. “We are _definitely _talking about that later. But- but first. What was I saying?”

“That you’re an open book?”

“Yeah! It’s like anyone who- who looks past the big, uh, dumb scary barbarian thing and remembers I’m a person. Or, apparently, anyone who stops being oblivious to how amazing they are…” he brushed his thumb gently over Shaun’s knuckles. “Those people have always been able to read me pretty easy. I’ve never actually known how to be coy and clever and… What I’m saying is, I’m never going to be able to lie to you. Not just because I’m not good at it, but also because I don’t _want _to.”

“Okay,” Shaun said.

“But I’m also not that great at working out when _other _people are lying. I don’t have much intu- inter- what’s it called?”

“Intuition.”

“Yeah, intuition.” Grog squeezed his hand tight, looking right into his face. “So please, help me out, and don’t ever feel you have to hide things. No weakness will embarrass me. No mistake is going to turn me away. I want to be a part of your life. I want to know _you._”

Shaun’s eyes were misty with tears. Instead of blinking them away, he let them be. He thought about all the walls he’d built around his too-big heart—all his performances and platitudes—and imagined what it would be like to let Grog see it all. To be completely exposed.

Instead of panic, his heart thundered with something more like joy; it was at once thrilling and terrifying and so _appealing_.

“Okay,” he promised. “I won’t lie to you. And Grog? I need you to know, I _love _that I can see everything in your eyes.”

He reached up and cupped his free hand around Grog’s cheek, drawing him closer. Their kiss was vulnerable and slow this time, saturated with intent.

“So, tell me how you’re feeling right now,” Grog whispered.

“To be honest, I’m relieved.” Shaun settled more comfortably in the seat. “I’ve been hiding these runes since I was a child. Every time I grew more powerful, I would gain another, and it felt like an accomplishment and a terrible shame all at the same time, especially after- after the riots I mentioned.”

“You handled it so well.”

Shaun chuckled. “Except for the fact that I froze up simply hearing the word ‘runechild.’”

“Well that’s understandable!”

“I suppose. Anyway, I think that fight was good for me, in the end. Because we won, and we destroyed that old book, and I gained a little more faith in myself. I feel safer now. I feel braver. I feel…”

“Relieved,” Grog repeated, nodding.

“Yes.” Shaun bit his lip. “Is that bad? That I feel relieved? There were almost fifty of those cultists. Fifty people who _died, _and I’m sitting here, just happy I can breathe again.”

“Shaun.” A flash of frustration crossed Grog’s face. “Those _people _tried to sacrifice you in a pit of fire. They wanted to burn the world. If you had slaughtered every one of them, I would have understood. But they took it out of your hands. _Of course_ you can be relieved. That’s _normal._”

Shaun absorbed the words—their easy forgiveness.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He was overwhelmed. “Now, how are _you _feeling? How’s your back? I can’t believe I stabbed you…”

“I’m okay,” said Grog. “Pike got it pretty good.”

“Still, let me see.”

Shaun shifted to his knees on the couch and Grog turned around. His back was already bare.

Pike, of course, was a brilliant healer. The scar stood out, easy to find, but it was well-mended with fresh skin. Only its edges were still angry and pink, the way goliath colouring changed after fresh wounds. And it interrupted one ear of the bear tattoo.

“Does it need more healing?” Shaun asked.

“It should be okay,” Grog looked over his shoulder, long eyelashes highlighted in profile. “Though I, uh, I do like feeling your magic.”

Shaun felt his face grow warm again. This honesty would be the death of him.

“If you insist,” he said.

He trailed his fingers along Grog’s back, watching the muscles tense under his touch, and sparked a little magic beneath the skin. The inflammation faded completely. The scar softened—as healed over as it would ever go—until the faintest crescent remained. 

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Shaun said. “That I didn’t realise you were asking me out.”

Grog spun around.

“No way,” he said, suddenly impassioned. “_I’m_ sorry I didn’t make it clear. I could barely use my brain; I was so nervous.”

“That is… more flattering than I can express.”

Grog’s expression became vulnerable. He cast his eyes down.

“Would- would you really have said yes, still, if you’d known what I was asking?”

“Of course! Grog, my goodness, I would have said yes in a heartbeat.”

When Grog looked up, his eyes were full of tears.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said.

And they stayed up all night, talking and kissing and enjoying blissful silence.

It was impossible to sleep, after all, when they were thrumming with excitement, and the whole world had been made anew. They told countless stories, going off on tangents, getting thoroughly distracted, and winding back to the point: describing first crushes, and childhood memories, and confessing all their feelings for each other. Taking their time with every word.

And when Shaun heard how long-lasting Grog’s crush had been, and how scared he’d felt, and how he’d surrendered to the true nature of his feelings, he melted with affection. He pressed soft kisses over his face until they were both breathless. And when Grog heard how oblivious Shaun had been and how much he’d doubted he might be loved, he nuzzled his face into his neck and worshipped him until he was gasping.

“Do you see how much I like you now?” he asked.

“I see,” Shaun whispered.

And on it went.

By the time the sun began to rise, they had given up on words. Shaun’s legs were looped over Grog’s lap, his head resting against his chest. Grog was slowly combing his fingers through Shaun’s hair. Shaun could hear his heartbeat, steady and sure. The luminous pleasure of simply being in each other’s company was more than enough. It was a perfect moment.

Until their friends began to hammer on the door demanding to take them out for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments are the sweetest things. keep 'em coming while you still can! only the epilogue left now...


	12. Epilogue: like the sun that gives the moon its glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe this is the end. This fic expanded so much bigger than I ever intended. And the trend continued here, with the last chapter. It was originally going to be one scene long (the very last scene presented here, with some adjustments, for those who are curious). That way it would be differentiated from the other chapters, as epilogues often are. However, I had a lot of encouragement on twitter to just put down all the ideas I had stewing in my head...
> 
> So, here we go! It's all finished. What a wild ride...

“Are you ready?”

Grog was standing in the open closet in Shaun’s childhood bedroom, trying to calm his heartrate, with Shaun holding tight to his hand. The two of them had only just arrived. They’d come from Tal’Dorei by transportation rune.

“I just- I’ve never ‘met the parents’ before.”

“You’ve met these exact parents,” Shaun pointed out.

“Well, true, but—”

“And they already like you.”

Grog flushed.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Still holding hands, they pushed open the door, and went out into the living room.

Grog was overwhelmed, immediately, by the two small, elderly humans. They pulled him and Shaun into a hug, talking about how much they’d been looking forward to this, and how it had been too long, and how they’d been just desperate to get a look at their son and his boyfriend, side by side.

Eventually, the hubbub calmed down. Grog found himself cross-legged beside a little table, Shaun’s hand now clasped in both of his, a steaming cup of tea set before him.

“We knew, when we met you,” Soren said. “That you were the kind of man our Shaun would like. It took you a long time to became something, though, yes?”

“Oh, shush,” Opesa said. “You’ll embarrass them!”

Soren continued. “I remember I said Shaun would have his hands full with you, didn’t I Grog? But he likes it that way, you know.”

“Appa!” Shaun gasped. “Why would you have told him he was a handful?”

“He was being very strange,” Soren said.

But he used the same friendly tone he’d used the last time he met Grog—the one free of the weight of real judgement. Grog was smiling uncontrollably.

“I _was_ being strange,” he admitted. Then something occurred to him. “Sorry! I didn’t bring you any water this time. I should’ve thought—”

“Nonsense,” Soren said. “You’ve given us a better gift already. Look at the smile on my son’s face.”

The conversation soon focused fully on Grog. Despite the fact that Shaun had apparently gushed about him in letters, Opesa and Soren wanted to hear every detail in person.

They asked Grog what he was doing these days, and he told them about his blacksmith apprenticeship. They asked about his childhood, and he briefly mentioned the herd, before extrapolating on his joyous years with Pike and Wilhand. They hardly even _mentioned_ his world-saving victories, but they spared a few questions to find out what he thought of adventuring, and to check whether he was doing okay after going through so many dangerous things.

Grog felt quite at home. He’d been expecting interrogation, and the inevitable conclusion that he wasn’t good enough. Instead, he found open minds.

“Now, we know you’re just staying the one night,” Opesa said after a while. “So we thought it might be a chance for celebration, and we invited a few people for dinner…”

“By a few,” Shaun asked, a hint of resignation in his tone. “Do you mean a hundred?”

She did.

People began pouring through the door soon after they finished drinking tea, until the whole house was full, echoing with the chatter of half of the extended Geddmore family and many of neighbours.

And Grog was the centre of attention.

According to Shaun, he would have been anyway, by virtue of the fact that they were dating. But there was an extra layer added by his involvement with Vox Machina. By now, half the world had heard of his heroics, and though Shaun’s parents were more interested in who Grog was as a person, the guests had no such motivation. They were there to meet a celebrity.

Grog had to admit he enjoyed himself though. He showed off with a few tall tales, then allowed children to chase him round and bombard him with questions. He tried his best to be charming, and even though he fumbled several things, and still couldn’t pronounce Marquesian words, he could tell they appreciated the effort.

For the whole evening, Opesa and Soren kept producing food from nowhere. They were surprisingly adept for their age. And they still found the time to seek out Grog and refill his plate whenever they could.

“Take more,” they kept telling him. “You need to eat.”

Grog would have pointed out that he _had been _eating. But he didn’t object to his appetite being doted on. He kind of loved it. A childhood memory flickered back to him—a memory of Tokka.

By the end of the night, when the other guests had left, and the house was quiet, a rather exhausted Grog went to look for Shaun. He found his boyfriend in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, arms deep in a bucket of soapy water, humming under his breath. His hair was curling in the steam. A linen apron had been wrapped around his waist, most likely to protect his outfit.

“You look good,” Grog mumbled, coming up behind him and planting a kiss on his head.

“You look tired,” Shaun said softly, turning to look at him. “They didn’t wear you out too much? I’m sorry that was sprung on you so last minute. I forget, sometimes, that this is what Marquet is like. I should have warned you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Grog promised. He plucked up a towel and started drying the things Shaun had already washed. “I liked it.”

“You did?” there was new vulnerability in Shaun’s expression, along with something like relief.

“Yes,” Grog told him. “Very, very much.”

…

At the end of a long day, Shaun went outside to collect his _open _sign, ready to close up shop. But first, he paused to take in the sight spread before him.

It was beautiful. The sun was going down over the rooftops of Westruun. His unicorn sign was illuminated in golden light and surrounded by flowers—garlands and bouquets propped up from the ground to the windows frames. They came in every colour, with vibrant pinks and reds poking out like a personal sunset, and pretty light blues and whites giving hints of long-gone summer skies.

Best of all, he could see the bundle Grog had given him, hooked right above the door, in the centre of it all. It was deep purple accentuated with bulbs of yellow, a little lopsided, and filled out with scruffy plants. Yet it was more perfect than any of the others. Because it had been chosen with careful, loving hands.

Shaun smiled softly to himself, and went back in. He dropped the sign just inside the entrance. At the rear of the room, Grog had almost finished sweeping, but he turned around when he heard the door shut.

“You’re still smiling!” he said. “Don’t your cheeks hurt?”

“A little,” Shaun laughed, going to take the broom out of his hands. “But this smile is for you. It’s different from the one I give the customers.”

Grog’s cheeks turned their lovely shade of pink.

“I thought you’d be tired.”

“Mm,” Shaun admitted. “I am tired. But I can manage one draining day.”

And truthfully, it had been draining.

Shaun hadn’t bothered organising a grand opening for Gilmore’s Glorious Goods this time, since his last attempt at starting the exact same store had only been three months ago. But, somehow, people had turned up anyway.

He assumed part of their motivation was due to his kidnapping. It had been impossible to miss an exploded wall and a street swarming with guards, so he’d had a lot of attention ever since he returned. Luckily, most was positive. The community rallied around him, expressing shock and regret to see such a thing happen in the middle of their district. They’d been bringing handmade letters and bouquets (hence the flowers out front), and though some of their words were clumsy, or condescending, or a little clueless, at least they were well-meaning.

And Shaun was good at deflecting the awkwardness. He’d always had a good customer-service face.

“I can finish cleaning,” Grog said, reaching to take back his broom.

“You don’t have to,” Shaun said.

He set the broom against the wall and took care of the last corner of dust and grime with a flash of prestidigitation. Then he grabbed Grog’s hand and drew him away, through the back room, up the stairs. Though Grog usually lived with Wilhand, he had planned to stay over tonight, so there was a meal still to eat, and a drink to have, and a warm bed to curl up in and relax.

“I’m proud of you,” Grog said, once they were sitting in the little kitchen upstairs, stove crackling behind them. 

“Of me?” Shaun asked. “Why?”

He had a spatula in his hand, in the middle of stirring, but he turned to face his boyfriend.

“For opening,” Grog said. “For not giving up. Some people wouldn’t come back after their shop was ruined two times over.”

“Well,” Shaun bit his lip. He sat at the table, in the seat right beside Grog’s, so their knees were touching. “I considered it, actually. When the dragons first came and I lost contact with Westruun, I figured the whole premises must have been destroyed. I thought I might not try again. But something stopped me from giving up. Something felt _special_ about this place.”

“This store?”

“This city. Whitestone might have become my second location _officially_, and that town will always have a place in my heart, but I planned _this_ shop first.” He regarded Grog quite seriously. “I always felt drawn here, for some reason.”

“It’s a good city,” Grog said, already feeling emotional.

“It is,” Shaun grabbed his hand. “It was worth the wait_._”

Grog grinned, and lifted their linked fingers, pressing a kiss to the back of Shaun’s knuckles.

“Just like you,” he said.

“Just like _you_,” Shaun answered.

Grog kissed his fingers again, then tilted, grounding one hand on his knee, to capture his lips. Smiling, Shaun leaned into it, his own hand landing in its favourite spot under Grog’s jaw, where that gorgeous beard would scratch his palm. He entertained the idea of a very different way to spend the evening.

And it seemed Grog had the same plan. His hand slid up Shaun’s leg. He was letting out small, desperate noises. Eventually, Shaun forced himself to pull away.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, eyes fixed on Grog’s mouth. “Or would you rather—”

“Let’s keep doing this,” Grog said, before he even finished.

And with a flick of Shaun’s hand, the flames on the stove were quelled, and all thoughts of cooking forgotten.

Mere minutes later, they moved to the bedroom, touching like magnets, and fell atop the sheets together. Entwined, Shaun could feel Grog’s heavy breathing—could see the awe and adoration in his eyes—and he felt more confident than he’d ever felt before.

Straddling Grog’s thighs, with a perfect view of his muscled torso, he sat back and tugged off his own tunic. It was an easy thing to remove. A sweep of arms. A light thump as the fabric hit the floor. But in changed the mood in the room in some imperceptible, exhilarating way. He left himself a single moment to simply revel in the reverence of the man laid out beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Grog sighed, overwhelmed.

“As are you, my dear, dear man.”

“Can we please…”

He seemed to have lost his words, so Shaun leaned down and kissed him again, slow and full of promise.

“Ask for anything,” he whispered.

Grog did. With a trail of kisses burning their way down his throat, he _pleaded_, all his insecurity forgotten, all desires laid open in the space between their hips.

And Shaun gave him everything.

…

While Grog trained to be a blacksmith, he lived with Grandpa Wilhand in the house of his childhood. And he would always be grateful for that, because as it turned out, it was the last year of the old gnome’s life.

Wilhand had been slowly growing frail for a while—losing his memory and stumbling through the most basic activities. He was still beloved by those who knew him though, and he kept up his involvement in local events. His most important task of all was fostering Sarenrae’s temple. The popularity of the goddess continued to grow, spurred on ever-more by Pike’s involvement.

It was good work, Wilhand always told Grog, and he was proud of it. But he knew his time was coming soon.

The real turning point hit on Vesper’s first birthday. Grog and Pike were in Whitestone, surrounded by friends, watching as Vex and Percy helped their baby girl open an excessive number of gifts. They had just got to Grog and Shaun’s present—a little tug-along wagon that Grog had built and Shaun had painted—when the message came through.

Pike froze, eyes unfocused, like she was listening to something. She gripped Grog’s arm.

“The temple just sent word.” She looked up at her adopted brother. “We have to go back to Westruun. Something happened to Wilhand.”

It turned out he’d had a fall, right down the temple stairs. He insisted he was fine, but he was trembling, and Sarenrae’s acolytes explained how he’d badly damaged his hip and had to be healed. Pike and Grog tucked him up in his own bed and brought him dinner. He apologised for causing them trouble. They told him, fiercely, that he was never any trouble to them.

Later, once he was asleep, they sat in their usual spots at the kitchen table and talked about it. Grog wished there was something to _do. _Something to fight. And so did Pike. But, instead, she decided to come home for a while. She could read the exhaustion in Wilhand’s bones too well.

“Sometimes I forget,” she confessed. “That he’s my great-great grandfather, really. That he’s so old…”

Her voice became choked. Her lip trembled so hard she couldn’t begin another sentence. As she started to cry, Grog hugged her tight, and she clung to him. He didn’t let go until long after she was quiet.

He helped her move her things to Westruun. Scanlan was as supportive as ever. He promised to keep the house in Vasselheim in order for them. He would stay there, close to Kaylie during her exams, but he would visit whenever he could.

As for Shaun, he spent more time than ever working in his Westruun store, using it as an excuse to be closer to Grog. He came over for dinner most nights and got to know Wilhand while he still could, deeply invested in the man who had made such a difference to his boyfriend.

Wilhand, predictably, adored him.

When Winter’s Crest came around, they knew they couldn’t go up to Whitestone. So, a few days before the holiday, Vox Machina and friends gathered in Westruun to celebrate, bringing enough food for a feast. JB joined them. She’d long since reconnected with her Grandpa, and he’d opened his arms to her.

The group began the morning with a walk through the centre of town, to look at the holiday markets and take in the street performers. Wilhand was all wrapped in blankets, pushed in a wheeled chair, but he was too happy to complain about being fussed over.

After the walk, the whole group simply lazed around the house, talking and watching Vesper toddle. She’d said her first word about a week ago and quickly realised that repeating it brought praise from all the adults.

“Tin-ke!” she gurgled, pointing at the bear who had curled up in the corner. “Tin-ke!”

Trinket lifted up his head and gave a friendly snuffle of response.

“Tin-ke!” Vesper repeated, bopping him on the nose.

He laid back down calmly and let her climb over his snout.

Wilhand’s face was full of warmth as he took in the scene, gazing about the cosy room, with the fire stoked in the hearth. He began to tell them about Pike’s first word. Apparently, the little cleric had started off saying ‘light,’ though of course, she couldn’t quite pronounce the ‘l’ yet.

“She used to call out ‘ight’ and point over at the nearest lantern,” Wilhand sighed. “So full of wonder. I knew, even then, that we had a remarkable wee girl in our midst.”

“Grandpa,” Pike said, teary-eyed. “I never knew that.”

“It’s very _you_,” Scanlan said.

“Yeah.” Percy had a wry little smile on his face. “Pretty sure my first word was ‘no.’ What does that say about me?”

Vex laughed.

“You know, darling, Vax used to say that was my first word as well. But there’s no _way_ he could actually remember, right?”

As they debated the topic, Grog drew Shaun into the kitchen. They were making hot chocolates. They talked softly about what a nice day it was, and how silly their friends were, and a thousand simple things they wouldn’t remember later. It didn’t matter. Grog appreciated the ease of it. The comfort. He needed that, that day, when despite all the celebration, he couldn’t stop looking at Wilhand’s trembling hands, and shallow breathing.

For the next three months, things kept getting worse.

Oddly, Wilhand didn’t seem too perturbed by his degenerating health. He talked about death with the air of someone looking forward to meeting an old friend. He spent a lot of time looking at his holy symbol or opening the window so he could hear the songs that drifted through the temple district.

One day, when Grog was sitting with him, his mood turned serious.

“Grog,” he said. “I need to speak with you.”

Grog put down the notebook he was holding, where he was attempting to sketch an idea for his smithing the next day. This seemed important.

“Yeah?”

Wilhand lay back against his pillows, heaving out a long sigh, shrewd eyes locked right on Grog. After a moment, he seemed ready to begin.

“There have been many generations of Trickfoot gnomes,” he said. “I’ve known them all. They were rarely people I could be proud of. And just as I knew Pike was a shining light in the midst of them, I knew you were something special too.”

“Oh.” Grog could already feel the tears pricking his eyes.

“When I first brought Pike to live with me, she became my biggest responsibility. It was just the two of us navigating a much bigger world. On the day I met you, when I was nearly killed by the herd, I kept thinking how it would be over for her too. How, if I died, she would be lost. You didn’t just save me, that day.”

“Grandpa Wilhand, that’s- you both saved _me._”

“Oh hush,” Wilhand snapped. “Don’t turn this back around. You bring something very special to our family. Without you, this house would have been a dimmer place.”

Grog wiped his eyes. Spoke quietly.

“Thank you.”

“I’m so _proud _of you Grog. I’m grateful to have had a third grandchild around, in my old age.”

And that was it. Grog began to fully cry, and Wilhand reached out to pat his hand until he was done.

“Now, go on out and meet that boyfriend of yours. I know you have a date tonight. You’d be a fool to miss a second of his company.”

“You talk about him like you’re half in love too.”

“Don’t be silly,” Wilhand laughed. “You’re the only man who could measure up.”

“Right,” Grog tried to dab his cheeks dry. “Thanks, Grandpa Wilhand.”

“No, thank _you_. I feel very at peace, knowing I’m leaving you and Pike and JB to such happy lives, surrounded by such wonderful people.”

“Well, you’re not leaving just yet, are you?” Grog asked.

Wilhand hesitated for a moment.

“Not just yet,” he promised.

And he was true to his word. He held on three more weeks.

His passing was peaceful and quiet, in his own bed, with one hand wrapped around his holy symbol. His affairs were all in order. He left Pike the house and split his limited money between her, Grog, and JB. They all knew what he wanted for his funeral.

Grog carried the body to the pyre. While a priest of the dawnflower delivered a wonderful eulogy, he wept beside his sister, surrounded by their friends and all the other people the old gnome had impacted throughout his long, long life. They watched the body made new in a form of cremation fuelled by divine magic. In one last tribute to the goddess of redemption, the ashes were spread to fertilise the gardens behind the temple.

And Grog clutched Shaun’s hand the whole way through. He needed that solid thing to ground him—to hold him to reality and remind him that the future was still bright.

…

The day that Grog became a blacksmith, Shaun met him at his workshop with a bunch of flowers, and crushed him into a rib-aching hug, squeezing harder than he ever would have dared to squeeze with someone else.

“I knew you could do it!” he whispered.

Grog planted a kiss on his head.

“Your faith got me through,” he said.

They thanked Grog’s mentor, Braelee, for her time and her guidance. She reiterated to Shaun how well Grog had done. His dedication had been the most impressive of all her students, and though he still had a lot to learn, he was turning out refined products. She was willing to hire him, if he wanted to stay.

She also left the workshop door open for Grog to show Shaun what he’d made.

But Grog was very shy all of a sudden. He shuffled around his corner, mumbling excuses, avoiding the large sheet that covered up his project.

“It’s not really the best,” he said. “It’s only my first year, and—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Shaun said. “Just show me.”

So Grog flicked away the cover.

Underneath was a shoulder plate of the kind Grog liked to wear on his less defended side. Its edges were clean, its surface shining, and most amazing of all, a symbol had been emblazoned onto it.

“That part was mostly done with help from other people,” Grog said nervously. “I even thought about seeing if _you_ wanted to help me, since I know you’ve done engraving stuff with magic before, and I don’t have the skills yet. But I also wanted it to be a surprise. So I- I just thought up the design and, uh, mostly just helped Braelee to add it. So if you hate it—”

“Grog,” Shaun breathed, saving him from his rambling. “I love it.”

Grog exhaled.

“Really?”

Shaun touched his fingers to the design. It depicted a unicorn almost exactly like the one he used on his shop signs, with a swirl of a mane, and a tall horn, rearing up to one side. But a new figure had been added, facing it. A rhino. He had a large body, rounded and thick-set, with wide feet, tossing his head high enough that his own horn formed a peak with the unicorn’s.

“I _really _love it,” Shaun said.

Grog’s cheeks were pink. He ducked his head.

“I’m glad,” he murmured.

Shaun lifted his face in his hands and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Come on, you gorgeous blacksmith,” he said. “Let’s go get a drink.”

…

When Pike proposed to Scanlan, Grog was a mess of different emotions. He was sad that Wilhand wasn’t alive to see it, and delighted that his two best friends were together, and just a little protective over memories of how Scanlan used to treat women. But that was easy enough to shake off. He’d always known things were different with Pike, and his buddy had grown up a great deal since the early days.

Besides, he was pleased to have Scanlan seek him out and ask for his blessing. He teased him at first, pretending to withhold his approval, but he had to throw the façade aside in the face of Scanlan’s sweet request to be walked down the aisle.

As the resident expert in shapes, colours, and shiny things, Grog was involved in wedding planning as much he could possibly be, from the very first moment, when he donated the enormous black sapphire that would be used for the rings. He was surprised, though, by just how many details needed sorting. He’d never realised one party could be such a complicated affair. Though that may have had something to do with the groom’s fancy tastes…

Pike and Scanlan worked in many gnomish traditions, such as buying a beautiful glass to shatter at the ceremony, along with the general Tal’dorei ones, like having one person wait at the front while the other made a grand entrance up the aisle. No one was surprised to hear that Scanlan had taken the more dramatic role for that part.

And Grog’s own response to wedding planning took him by surprise.

Rather than finding it boring, he was quickly swept up in the romance. In the months leading up to the special day, he found himself so full of love that he sent Shaun’s head spinning with indulgent affection every time they met up.

They began to mention marriage in their futures too, in vague terms and through simple offhand comments.

“Oh, I do like hydrangeas,” Shaun might say, as he helped Grog pen a letter to Keyleth asking what colours she could procure. “If I was the one getting married, I wouldn’t mind those.”

“Me neither,” Grog said, but he felt his cheeks burn. “I wonder if they come in purple.”

“Baby, they come in purple,” Shaun assured him.

And Grog looked down to see he’d left a giant ink blot on the page—his thoughts totally caught up with the image of Shaun standing under an arch of flowers.

The morning of the wedding dawned warm and overcast. Pike was hoping for rain later, when her and Scanlan would be cuddled up in their honeymoon inn. The ceremony itself was taking place in Westruun, since Pike grew up there, and it was home to such a significant temple to Sarenrae, and, most importantly of all, it was the city where the happy couple met for the first time.

The whole wedding party got ready together. They were spread through Pike’s Westruun house, which she now shared with Grog as equally as she shared her place in Vasselheim.

The bride and groom were set up in different rooms. They didn’t want to see each other before the big reveal, but it had seemed stupid to split up their extremely mutual group of friends. Everyone drifted between the separate spaces. Grog was crying. A lot. Though he and Tary were lined up in charge of braiding hair, the only thing that really distracted him from his tears was the thought of Shaun, who was making his own way to the temple. Grog wondered just how beautiful he would look.

He was not let down.

As soon as he’d carried Scanlan (weeping with joy) up the aisle, and set him on his feet, his eyes sought out his boyfriend in the audience. He found soft blue fabric and rows of pearl buttons and an open neckline. Shaun shot him a wink. He grinned back, imagining, in even more vivid detail than usual, what it would be like to stand opposite that face at the altar.

He was only distracted by the vows, which set off his sobbing again.

At the reception, he finally had a chance to catch up with Shaun for real. They sat among their friends. Shaun held a glass of the rich red wine Scanlan had chosen, while Grog filled a mug with Pike’s favourite brew.

“I hope Ioun doesn’t mind that my loyalties are always split…” Scanlan was saying to his bride. “I think converting to Sarenrae for a girl is a good motivation.”

She grinned. “Our gods are friends anyway, or close enough. And we helped them defeat an ancient evil. They can’t complain.”

“So irreverent,” Scanlan said, leaning in to kiss her. “How I love your contradictions…”

They giggled against each other’s lips.

“Eurgh, you’re so sappy,” Vex sighed hypocritically. “You’ll give me morning sickness at ten pm.”

She was heavily pregnant again, a month off giving birth, cradling a non-alcoholic ginger beer. Percy held a matching glass. Perhaps because he’d sworn off drink in solidarity, or perhaps because he had Vesper on his lap, and she was grabbing hold of everything within her reach, trying to eat it.

Then Shaun spotted someone making the rounds with a fresh plate of wedding cake. He pulled Grog away to get some.

They found an open window at the side of the reception hall, where they could talk in quiet, and enjoy the night breeze. Shaun leaned against the sill and looked out at Westruun, taking an occasional stab of cake with his fork, savouring the flavour until it all ran out. Stars reflected in his eyes.

Grog was so busy watching him, he was going at least half the speed eating his own food.

“Shaun,” he whispered. “Do you want this?”

Shaun glanced at him, right in his eyes, down to his cake, and back again.

“I’ll take a bite, if you’re offering,” he said.

Grog handed him the whole plate without a second thought.

“I meant, do you want a wedding?” he clarified. “Do you want to make a promise in front of all your friends and commit to- to someone for life?”

“I knew what you meant,” Shaun admitted. “A poorly timed joke, sorry.”

Grog waited.

“I guess it makes me nervous, telling you,” Shaun said, like his desires might not be reciprocated. “But, yes, Grog, I want a wedding. More than that, I want a marriage. I want a whole life with… someone.”

Grog felt tension slip out of his body.

“Good,” he said. “So do I.”

Shaun smiled. He picked up the last of the cake with his fingers and handed back the empty plate.

“Sorry, I ate it all.”

Grog didn’t mind one bit. He watched Shaun lick his fingers clean of icing, and looked into those stunning brown eyes, and words burst out of him unprepared.

“Shaun, I love you.”

Shaun’s lips parted. He blinked.

“I’m, like, _in love _with you.” Grog fidgeted with the crumb-covered dish. “Very much.”

“I love you too,” Shaun said.

He stepped up, retracted the plate, and set it on the windowsill, so there was nothing separating them.

“I love you very much.”

“I know we’ve probably said we- we love each other before,” Grog stammered. “We all say it as friends, and with Vox Machina and stuff, and we’ve also said it without using words a bunch of times, if that makes sense. But I’m serious. I’m _in love. _Completely.”

Shaun wrapped an arm around Grog’s waist and drew him toward the dance floor.

“Completely,” he agreed. “And without reservation.”

…

Sometimes, Shaun was glad to have such an oblivious boyfriend. It helped him set up great surprises. And on their weekend trip to Emon, it was especially vital that Grog missed all the clues, even though they were right in front of his face.

First, they spent a day doing everything they loved most. They visited Greyskull Orphanage in the morning, played games with the children, and handed out sweets. Nanisha wheedled an extra share out of them. They were trying not to favour her so much. It wasn’t working. Then Shaun put on his most causal one-piece, with the loose pants and short sleeves, and agreed to come out to the sparring ring with Grog. They tried a few rounds of combat against one another, laughing the whole way through, then making out in the changing rooms. They followed it up with an afternoon of cooking, producing all their favourite foods (including their regular round of flatbreads) which Shaun packed neatly into lunchboxes along with a full skin of cider.

“I’m just going to get changed,” he said. “And we’ll take this romantic picnic to the wild?”

“Sounds good,” Grog said. “I’ll change too.”

They met back in the entry, Shaun in billowing plum, and Grog in navy. They linked hands as they walked through Emon and out along the coast, right as the sun went down.

One moon would be full that night, as Shaun planned, with the other curled in crescent so close it looked like they wanted to embrace. The sea was sweet and calm, peaking waves gleaming in the dusky light. The sand looked golden. The grassy verge on which they walked was blurred by gentle wind.

“Shall we sit here?” Shaun asked, when they reached the place he wanted, under an old peach tree, half leaned over.

Grog removed the cloak he’d fastened round his shoulders and laid it on the ground. Shaun began to unpack dinner, setting it in a circle, while Grog hung a little lantern on the branches of the tree. When he sat, Shaun handed him a glass of frothy, peachy cider.

“This is fancy shit,” Grog said, impressed.

“Mm, give it a taste. You’ll like it,” Shaun promised.

His mind had little room for cider though. His palms were sweaty. The ring box in his pocket felt incredible bulky.

He managed to make it through the entire meal with minimal blank moments. When all the food had been polished off, they decided to walk down the beach before they packed up. The sand still felt warm between their toes, though the sun had set, and only the moons provided light.

Shaun let Grog lead most of the conversation, his heart hammering, his mind dancing with all the things he wanted to say. At last, they returned to the peach tree. The moment Grog turned his back, reaching for the lantern, Shaun went to one knee behind him.

“Grog,” he said softly. “Turn around.”

Grog did. His eyes went wide.

“I love you,” Shaun started. “I never knew I could connect with anyone like this. I never knew I could be this happy. You have surprised me, you’ve fulfilled me, and you’ve made me a better man. I couldn’t bear to wait another second without asking you this question; will you marry me?”

“Holy fuck,” Grog said, pressing his hands to his mouth. “Holy fuck…”

As Shaun’s chest squeezed in dread, waiting for the word ‘yes,’ Grog dug a hand into his pocket. He tore out a little box of his own, fumbling it open, holding it out, dropping to his own knees. Laid on a tiny silken pillow was a second ring.

Shaun’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, Shaun,” Grog said. “I-I wanted to ask- I will. I will marry you.”

Shaun sprung out of his crouch and into Grog’s arms, kissing him in earnest.

They spent far longer under the tree than originally intended. They untangled just enough to slide rings onto each other’s fingers. Shaun admired the gleam of gold pressed with moonstones, then explained the engravings on Grog’s thick band—their names linked in Marquesian and in Giant. They dried each other’s tears away with brushes of their lips, and they ended up twining together, cuddled close beneath an open sky, full of possibility.

…

The early summer wedding was a grand affair—the kind of party only Shaun and Grog could plan. They’d both run wild with their ideas and their generous budget, until they produced a chaotic mix of their personal tastes, somehow both absurd and glamorous, and certainly over-the-top. It was exactly what they wanted.

They had a huge dinner the night before, in the Marquesian tradition, with all the curries and desserts provided in full by the Geddmore family. About a hundred aunts, uncles, and cousins had been brought over by teleportation rune in the weeks before, marvelling at the magical power their relative had access too.

The ceremony itself was held in the centre of Emon. Grog booked out the public square where the old dragon lair had been paved over.

The surrounding buildings were draped in bright silks and strung with lights. A strip of vibrant purple fabric had been rolled over the ground, leading to the temporary altar set up at the front, where Keyleth had crafted an arch dripping with flowers. Several hundred chairs cluttered the rest of the space. Invitations had almost been too numerous to count, since as far as Grog and Shaun were concerned, good things were made to be shared.

They’d decided to both walk down the aisle, and, taking a leaf out of Pike and Scanlan’s book, the whole group of friends got ready together in the morning, only the two grooms hidden from one another.

“Shaun’s carriage just left,” Pike said, popping her head through the door of Grog’s room. “You ready to follow?”

“Yes,” Grog said, standing up. “I’m ready.”

He took one more look at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a proper, pleated kilt today, with an embroidered design in golden thread up one side, sewn by Soren Geddmore. His chest was decorated with goliath bridal paint, completed by his cousin Zanror earlier that morning. It had just enough of a twist on the traditional design to make Grog feel comfortable and happy—like it was a tribute to the best parts of his past, with none of the trauma—a gift of healing.

Pike took his hand and led him to his own carriage.

She was the only one travelling with Grog. Shaun had taken the rest of the bridal party on ahead. The hired driver tipped his hat to them, and with a quick flick of the reigns, they were off.

Grog kept expecting someone to burst out of nowhere and tell him the wedding was cancelled, and he’d made it all up in his head, and it was ridiculous to except anyone was actually _allowed _to be this happy. He was very thankful for Pike, and her hand in his, reminding him that this _was_ real.

The cart pulled up at the end of the courtyard. Grog could hear music starting—the cue to begin the wedding. He knew Opesa and Soren would be walking Shaun up the aisle now, one on either side, faces shining with pride. Following behind, Nanisha would be springing along in her little golden dress, spilling petals from her fingers. Next up were all the best folks; Vex and Percy walking arm-in-arm, then Allura, linked with Keyleth, and Sherri with Scanlan.

Right before they went, Scanlan flicked open the curtain, and gave Grog and Pike their cue.

Grog stepped out. The sun was bright overhead, and the courtyard crowded, dozens of friendly faces staring his way. An excited murmur rumbled through them.

Pike tugged his hand. They started walking.

Grog kept his eyes on the ground for the first few steps. He was already one blink away from crying. He tried to breathe and make sure he wouldn’t trip over the carpet.

Then, at last, he let himself look up.

Scanlan and Sherri had just reached the front. They parted ways, going to either side of the altar, and leaving a perfect view of his groom, standing at the end of the too-long walk.

Shaun looked radiant. His hair was shining, tied back as usual, but with a dozen intricate braids and a headdress of delicate gold chain. His robe was long and heavily embroidered, deep red, with all the details in golden thread. He glittered with jewellery. And, best of all, his smile was dazzling. There was no hint of fear in that gaze—no flicker of regret—only pure, unapologetic, adoration.

Grog reached the front and crouched all the way down so Pike could kiss his cheek.

“Try to breathe,” she whispered. “And have fun.”

With a laugh, Grog went to stand before his soon-to-be-husband. 

Kima was officiating. There had been no question about that. Grog wouldn’t be walked forward by anyone but Pike, and he’d wanted her to enjoy the wedding as a guest, without extra work to do, so the decision had been up to Shaun to find a celebrant.

She gave them an enormous grin before she started.

Grog had to reel his thoughts back and make himself concentrate. Kima had the crowd laughing with a few quick jokes, and then slipped into the more serious parts of the ceremony. Soon enough, the time came for their vows.

Shaun was first. His hands were shaking. He unfolded a lovely piece of parchment from his pocket, cleared his throat, and began.

“Grog Strongjaw,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet Grog’s. “I was clueless for many, many years. I stumbled around with my reckless heart in my hands, giving it away in places where it could never come to rest. But now I’m glad for all the confusion, and all the pain, because somehow, I found you.”

Grog realised he couldn’t see Shaun through his tears. He blinked them away.

“When you walked into my shop,” Shaun continued, “drenched in rain, and smiling that perfect smile, I had no idea what I had found. As our friendship grew into one of the most special things in my life, I was so afraid to let myself think of you like- like this.”

He gestured between them, paper pretty much forgotten now, speaking from the heart.

“But now?” he said. “Now that I finally see you, truly and completely, I vow to never look away. You are the bravest, sweetest, wisest man I know. You are my refuge, my safe space, and my home. Under that _gorgeous _body, your heart is made of gold.”

The crowd was laughing. Shaun winked at them, embracing it.

“And we all know how courageous and clever and _glorious _I am. It’s remarkable I found someone who fits with me so perfectly. Grog, you are different from me in every place that I need balance, and we are the same in all the ways that matter. I promise to love, respect, and protect you, for as long as we both live.”

And with the vows complete, Shaun took a stuttering breath, and smiled again. He fluttered a hand beside his eyes as though it would dry away his tears. The audience laughed.

Grog wanted to kiss him. Instead, he took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

He’d sat down with Pike for hours and hours, working out how to write every word, so it was perfect. He’d practised reading it in front of a mirror. His voice would probably still be halting, and hesitant over the act of reading before a crowd, but he knew Shaun would understand. Shaun would see the grand gesture of love in Grog pouring so much onto a single square of parchment.

“Shaun Gilmore,” he said. “You look beautiful today. See, I wrote that down, because I knew it would be true. And I still feel just… blown away.”

He got his own laugh from the crowd.

“Most people who know me would never call me clever. But today, I become the smartest man alive, because I choose _you._”

He paused as the emotion flooded him. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. Shaun’s eyes were molten gold, patient and encouraging. He managed to keep going.

“I never really understood metaphors, Shaun, until I started falling in love. It was like everything I experienced with my plain f-five senses was suddenly a form of poetry, made for you. I was once a tu- tumultuous ocean—a choppy, stormy sea—and you were like the moons above, so steady and sure, shaping my tides long before I understood the effect you had on me. Then _I _felt like a moon. I was so dark, sometimes. And you were the brightest, most glorious sun, so stunning that everyone who saw you must simply love you. I reached for that light, slowly getting closer, slowly growing to see myself as worthy. I- I had a lot of maturing to do to become the man who stands before you now.”

He heard a sniff, and looked up, startled, to find Shaun crying properly. Shaun nodded at him quickly, encouraging him to go on.

“But unlike the things in the sky,” Grog said. “I’m lucky. I don’t have to go backwards into darkness again. With this ring, and the promises I make you, I get to freeze time at full moon, and live in your r-radiance for the rest of my life. So now, in front of the family we found together, I make my vow. I will be yours, and yours alone. I will love, respect, and protect you, for as long as we both live.”

Having got through it all, he finally tucked away his paper and rubbed the tears from his face. Shaun reached for his hands. He grabbed on tight.

Kima finished the wedding, with _I do, _and rings exchanged, and with a kiss that made their rowdy friends whoop and whistle.

When they pulled back from it, and the music rose around them, they hardly even noticed. They were transfixed on each other, heads reeling with the word _husband. _They walked back down the aisle together and waited for the last Marquesian tradition.

Three couples came forward. Opesa and Soren, Kash and Zahra, and Shaun’s merchant neighbour, Farhey, with his husband. They lined up in front of the newlyweds and looped long flower garlands over their necks—woven together with stunning blooms of red and white.

At last, Shaun and Grog climbed into the carriage that would take them away, and they were kissing before it pulled out from the curb.

“I love you,” Shaun said.

“I love you too.”

Their closest friends and family gathered at the house again. Scanlan had invited an artist he knew to sketch the outlines for a group portrait, and they laughed a lot and drank a little before heading to the dinner venue.

Though this spot had a much smaller selection of guests, it couldn’t be considered _small_ in any terms. Just under three hundred seats had been set around tables in Azalea Street Park. Kaylie’s band, playing in one corner, had needed to magically amplify their sound.

Grog and Shaun let their friends file in first, while they waited to be announced. From their vantage point, they could pick out faces in the crowd. They passed the time pointing them out to one another.

At a table with some other old Whitestone refugees, Jarrett was pouring drinks. Behind him, Kerrek and Kern were shaking hands. Earthbreaker Groon and Tamir were deep in conversation with a tall, lithe figure who must have been J’mon Sa Ord; they’d sent a very cryptic RSVP, but apparently, they’d made it. Niranjan was looking curiously in that direction, his husband and his teenage sons trying to convince him to walk over. Nimi wasn’t sitting with them. She was going to greet Shaun’s parents. She passed little Vesper, who was crawling on the grass around her aunt. Cassandra was trying to balance the twins and watch the toddler and listen to Kaylie singing at the same time. Thankfully, Trish bent down to help her. And, in the middle of all the tables, Lionel was sitting with Tary and Lawrence, who were pointing at the other guests like they were trying to set him up with someone.

At last, Kaylie cleared her throat. She called for silence.

“Helloooo everyone, welcome,” she said, her amplified voice spreading despite the open sky above. “What a cool wedding, huh? Now, it’s time for the party. But first, we better welcome the most important people at this thing. No, I’m not talking about all these fu- these world leaders and nobility. It is my _pleasure_ to announce, for the first time ever, Shaun and Grog Geddmore!”

The crowd erupted with applause.

Shaun tugged Grog forward, and with beaming smiles, they made their way to their table.

They’d spent hours deciding what their last name should be. They knew early one that they wanted to share the same one. Though Shaun would still be using Gilmore for his business, he liked the idea of separating his personal life, and Grog felt no attachment to being called Strongjaw. He’d once considered Trickfoot, but Pike and Wilhand had a complicated enough relationship with that title. It clearly hadn’t been his to take.

For a while, he and Shaun had tossed out entirely new names, disconnected from anything that came before. They’d shared definitions in different languages and looked at things tacked together with their first names, and struggled, and struggled, and struggled.

Until at last, it had come to them. They would return to an old, special name which had never lost its charm. A name which had only ever been cast aside for the purpose of convenience and to mark the shifting identity of a much younger man. Now, Shaun was fully grown. Now, he was ready to acknowledge the complexities of what _home _meant to him, and he wanted to share those complexities with the man who embodied _home_ most strongly. Grog, of course, adored the idea of a title that would carry a whole legacy of supportive family alongside it. He wanted to be reminded every day of his new belonging.

“Here you go, Mr Geddmore,” Shaun said, pulling out Grog’s chair for him. “Take a seat.”

Grog pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek and accepted.

“Thanks, Mr Geddmore,” he said.

…

Grog and Shaun had been married for one year when they realised they wanted to dive headfirst into the next stage of their family life. They’d enjoyed just being a couple, but they’d also known they wanted to be fathers long before they even got together. It seemed silly to keep waiting.

Especially because they knew exactly who they wanted in their family.

Nanisha already felt half like a daughter to them. All of Vox Machina visited Greyskull Orphanage pretty regularly to fulfil their duties as its patrons, but lately, Grog and Shaun had been making an extra effort. They could have spent hours with Nanisha, hearing about her schoolwork and seeing how her magic had developed and generally making sure she was okay.

But they wanted to do it right.

First, they spoke with a few local authorities and with the families in charge of the orphanage, to make sure adoption was even a possibility. They didn’t want to get her hopes up and then let her down.

They knew a little more about her background now. Her father, Prem, had been an orphan from Marquet, and her mother, Madeline, had been from Tal’dorei. They were very young when they got married, but deeply in love. Unfortunately, Madeline’s noble family turned up their noses at having a poor foreigner in their midst. They weren’t even moved by the adorable baby who soon came into the world. So, Madeline and Prem made plans to run away. But while they were preparing, their carriage overturned, and both were found dead. One of Madeline’s family servants had been looking after the baby. The family refused to take her, so, unable to afford a child of her own, the servant had delivered her to an orphanage, with a single letter to tell her story.

Nanisha had no living relatives who wanted to take her. She had no siblings. She was unconnected and alone. Grog and Shaun were encouraged to pursue the adoption.

They found Nanisha in the Greyskull garden, playing with a new toy she’d received for her sixth birthday. Her rune was alight. They could hear her calling out the names of different cantrips, waving the arms of her doll, like it could use its own magic.

“Hi, Nani!” they called.

“Grog! Gilmore!” she yelled, whirling around.

She dropped her toy and sprinted toward them, hitting just as they bent down to meet her, one of her arms around each neck.

“What’re you doing?” Grog asked. “Playing sorcerer?”

“Yeah!” she scrambled back and collected her doll, waving it in his face. “Wanna be a bad guy and I’ll attack you?”

Shaun’s heart melted. He loved watching the two of them like this—so full of childlike wonder.

“That sounds fun, sweetie,” he said. “But first, we have a really important question to ask you.”

Nanisha looked at their faces, and sobered. She lowered her doll. She seemed almost scared.

“Yeah?”

“Sit down with us?” Shaun asked.

They went to a bench under the courtyard tree, where Keyleth once used _transport via plants_ to take refugees to Whitestone. It was a place that promised new beginnings. Grog lifted Nanisha onto his lap, trying to reassure her with his presence.

“We’ve been thinking a lot lately,” Shaun started. “About how us three make such a good team. We think you’re special, and clever, and brave. And we would love it if we could become an official family.”

“A family?” Nanisha asked, her eyes the size of saucers.

“Would you like that?” Grog said. “For us to be your dads?”

Nanisha let out an ear-splitting scream and threw her arms around them again.

“Yes!” she yelled. “I would love it!”

…

Shaun received word when Tamir died. He was devastated.

Grog was his shoulder to cry on, the night he read the letter, and his supporting arm as they prepared to visit Marquet for the funeral.

They slept in Shandal for one night, and then left on the journey to Ank’Harel. Nanisha was staying in the oasis town, to get to know her grandparents better, and most likely to be doted on and spoiled. Shaun and Grog were glad. She deserved that kind of attention. And they would have hated her first visit to Marquet to have been coloured only by mourning.

The funeral itself was beautiful. Tamir’s human husband had died long before her, many years ago. She was now to be buried in the grave beside his, under a gravestone carved with a desert caravan, to pay homage to their merchant legacy.

They sang an old song, participating in a beautiful dance that began solemn and sad and turned celebratory, in tribute to a wonderful life lived.

Then Shaun and Grog went back to their inn. They curled up on the bed, side by side.

“It feels like the end of an era,” Shaun admitted. “She was always there for me, mentoring me, and even asking for guidance in return. So humble! Like I had much to offer her…”

“You did,” Grog said. “The day I met her she gave me this _look, _like staring into my soul, and told me I better be good enough for her favourite genius. She said your spark was the very thing her business needed. Said you’d be way more successful than she was.”

Shaun laughed through wet eyes.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Besides, she was so proud of you,” Grog added. “You have five stores now, Shaun! Emon, Whitestone, Westruun, the new one opening in Syngorn and the little one in Zephrah. That’s freaking amazing!”

“Oh you,” Shaun huffed, burying his face in his hands.

“You can’t deny it,” Grog said, poking him.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Shaun leaned his head into Grog’s chest, so exhausted, ready to sleep the emotion away. “She was proud.”

It was one of the rare nights Shaun chose to be the little spoon. Grog enveloped him entirely, alert and protective long after he fell asleep. The next morning, a messenger found them at their inn, interrupting breakfast to pass on an envelope—thick and fancy, with a proper wax seal.

Eyebrows raised, Shaun split it open, and withdrew the letter inside. He scanned the page.

“Grog!” he gasped. “Gods alive, this is…”

Grog peered at the paper over his shoulder, only to discover it was written in Marquesian. He waited patiently for it to be explained to him. Shaun quickly read through the first section.

“It’s from Tamir,” Shaun said. “She left me the premises! The shop in Ank’Harel! She says she already had a sign made, ready to be put up instead of her current one. It’s—”

He turned the letter over and finished reading. Cracked up laughing.

“Apparently, it says _Gilmore’s Glorious Goods, the home of arcane delights, endorsed by the illustrious Madame Tamir._”

“Quite a mouthful,” Grog said, grinning.

“Oh, I love it,” Shaun said. He looked up at his husband. “What do you think? Are we ready to go cross-continental?”

…

Vex and Percy had another baby. Everyone gathered in Whitestone to see her. It had been a difficult birth, and she was smaller and fussier than her sisters had been, but still utterly enchanting. Not wanting to overwhelm her, only a few of the adults took turns holding her, cooing and shushing as she wriggled. They passed her back to her father as quickly as possible. When Percy laid her on his chest, she fell fast asleep in an instant.

Shaun glanced over at the corner of the room, where the other children were playing.

Nanisha had really taken to the role of the oldest cousin. Using her best bossy voice, she had pulled out a set of wooden blocks (carved by Percy) and was patiently stacking them in towers for the twins to knock down. Though she tried to explain to them that the game was about making things taller, they obviously didn’t understand. But she didn’t lose her temper.

And by her side, three-and-a-half-year-old Vesper was copying her, hero-worship in her eyes.

“Nani does so well with them,” Percy said. “She’s got the touch of a natural big sister.”

“Vesper’s the same,” Shaun said modestly, though he and Grog were puffing up with pride. “You can see the responsibility in her eyes.”

Of course, Vex and Percy agreed with that. Vex told them stories of how the twins had changed in the week since the new baby was born. Beatrice was getting grumpy for attention and Catalina was crying more than ever. But, apparently, Vesper had become a soothing presence for them both. She even tried to sing lullabies.

“And are you planning to keep adding to the family every year and a half?” Scanlan asked. “Whitestone will be overrun with de Rolos.”

Pike elbowed him.

“It was more than two years this time,” she said. 

But Vex and Percy just thought it was funny. They seemed to thrive on their reputation as an obnoxiously happy family.

“We think we might stop here,” Percy said. “Four is a good number.”

“Yeah,” Shaun said. “It is.”

That was enough to catch everyone’s attention. Vex turned to him with shrewd calculation.

“Do _you_ ever think about more?”

“Well…” he glanced at his husband. “We do.”

“Yeah, we want more,” Grog agreed. “We would have to talk to Nani first, though.”

“I think she’d be keen.” Allura gestured to the children. “Like Percy said, she’s got a gift.”

Shaun looked over again. Beatrice had just snatched a block out of her twin sister’s hand, but before Catalina could start crying, Nani scooped her onto her lap, distracting her with the tip of her braid. He felt his heart soar with affection.

Later that evening, the Geddmore’s were settling into one of the guest rooms. Nanisha had been so excited, treating it like a sleepover, but suddenly, she went quiet. Contemplative. Almost… shy?

It was strange to see. Since her adoption, she’d been getting past the idea that her dads were perfect heroes, who belonged in Vox Machina stories, separated from everyday life. She was used to their dorky moments and their quirks. She was confident and comfortable

“Nani, sweetie, what’s on your mind?” Shaun asked.

She turned around, looking quite self-conscious.

“I was just thinking,” she said. “It’s so fun having other kids around, right?”

“Of course,” said Grog.

“And- and I heard Uncle Percy,” Nani continued. “Saying I would be a good big sister. And I liked that. I like playing with my cousins. But… I miss them when I’m away. I… I want more people in our family!”

The declaration came so suddenly, it seemed she had surprised herself.

But her fathers weren’t so shocked. They were both grinning. They bent down beside her.

“Do you really, sweetie?” said Shaun.

“Yeah.”

“Well, we’ll tell you a secret,” said Grog, with his best attempt at an air of mystery. “We want more kids too.”

Nani’s face lit up.

“For real?”

“For real,” Shaun said. “Maybe we should think about finding you a little sibling, huh?”

…

The Geddmore’s tried to visit Zanror and his partner a few times a year.

One night, when they went to the herd’s camp for dinner, they found the couple looking rather nervous. Though the meal was as delicious as ever, the conversation fine, and Nani happily occupied kicking a ball around with Zanror’s son, something felt different.

Finally, when the kids moved out of earshot, the reason came out.

“We had a question,” Zanror said. “It’s something you can refuse, if you want. It’s a really big ask. But…”

“But we thought you might be the right people,” ­­Worra finished.

“Okay,” Grog said tentatively, giving Shaun a quick look, reading equal confusion in his expression. “Ask away.”

“There’s a little girl here,” Worra said. “Four years old, we think. Her name is Niko. Her parents were in the herd, but her mother was killed by Umbrasyl, and her father died in the year that followed. She’s been wandering with us ever since. Sometimes people have been able to foster her. But she’s just…”

“Not happy,” Zanror said. “She’s very… gentle. She cries whenever we leave our lake camps. She gets attached to a little plant, or a bird’s nest, and by the time our migration brings us back around, that thing’ll be gone. And she’ll be so sad.”

“She’s a kid of a wild,” Worra said, tone protective. “Like all of us. But she needs a different kind of stability. She needs parents.”

“We don’t just want to dump her in a city,” Zanror explained. “We wanted a goliath of the herd, who would really _get _where she came from. But who, perhaps, could offer a home where she’d feel safe. Maybe one with a garden…”

“And we knew you’d adopted before…”

They trailed off there, looking expectantly at Shaun and Grog.

Grog could feel his heart aching for the kid already. But he knew this wasn’t a decision to take lightly. He looked at his husband.

“Can we have a moment?” Shaun asked. “To talk about it?”

“Of course!” said Worra. “We’ll watch Nani. She’s enjoying her game anyway.”

“We’ll be right back,” Grog promised.

He took Shaun walking along the edge of the camp, the smoke rising above the yurts adding to the serious mood. They went through the proposal a few times together, trying to think of any reasons they might turn it down.

But in the end, they knew what their hearts were telling them.

There were still things to organise. They had to consult Nani, and meet Niko, and rearrange their apartment, and find out how to register another child with the city of Emon. But they knew where this was headed. They could sense the unquestionable call of family.

And when they met Niko, the magnetism turned into conviction. Two months later, they were filling out the paperwork, and it felt like magic, seeing her name linked with their own. They gave her a new middle name too. They wanted to pay homage to Pike, but she was too modest to let them use her actual name. Instead, they selected Everly—common for people blessed by Sarenrae.

Then they carried Niko home.

…

“Here we go,” Shaun said.

He stood with Grog and the girls on a lovely little Emon street, where the road was lined with trees, and a stream ran parallel to the back gardens. Stretching up in front of them was a little house of brick and dark wood panels, with wisteria hanging over the porch. In his hand, Shaun clutched a small, golden key.

He slid it into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door.

Beyond, there was a tidy little entryway, with a staircase heading up, and a corridor leading onward. His daughters pushed passed him, excited, and tore their shoes off before sprinting away into the house.

“Careful on the stairs!” Grog yelled. Then he turned to Shaun. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes,” Shaun led the way. “I was just… processing.”

“Getting the memory stored?” asked Grog.

“Something like that.”

They slid off their shoes and stepped onto wooden floors.

The house was new, and this was their first time coming in since the key was handed over. Until that point, they had been living in Shaun’s apartment while in Emon, or Grog and Pike’s place in Westruun, or had simply stayed with friends and booked inns during their other travels. But with two kids, and plans to have more, they’d decided it would be good to get a family home.

“Look at this, Niko!” Nanisha was yelling from the back. “We have a garden!”

Shaun and Grog took their time. They poked their heads through the doors they passed—rooms empty for now, but soon to be furnished. The front of the house consisted of a little parlour and a study room. Then there were two bedrooms (the rest of them tucked away upstairs), and, at the rear, the kitchen and living area. The lounge was cosy, with a large fireplace against one wall. The kitchen had enough room for a dining table, and a broad door led out to the back garden, so they could build a pit oven for their flatbreads.

The girls were already outside.

Niko had the biggest smile on her round face. Nanisha was guiding her, looking at the beds of flowers up against the side of the house, and the old wine barrels where they would plant herbs, and the big peach tree in the middle of the mossy lawn. Then she took her sister to the end of the garden and peered over the gate to the stream beyond.

Shaun couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it looked to him like a lecture on water safety—a classic showing of responsibility from Nani. Though her little sister didn’t seem to be listening. There was too much to distract her.

Grog pressed a kiss to the side of Shaun’s head.

“See?” he murmured. “We knew it’d be perfect.”

“It is. I feel far too lucky.”

“_I_ feel like a sexy responsible adult,” Grog said.

“Oh?” Shaun turned around, checking him out.

He was as handsome as ever, and somehow, the backdrop of their new house amplified it. Shaun wrapped his arms around his waist, tugging him close.

“You _are _a sexy, responsible adult,” he said.

He kissed him. He could feel Grog smiling.

“Ew, Appa, stop kissing Dad!” Nanisha yelled. “Show us what rooms are ours!”

Shaun pulled back.

“And how come I get blamed for the kissing?” he whispered.

“It was _entirely _your fault, you old flirt,” Grog said. “The things our poor kids have to put up with…”

“Grog,” Shaun scoffed.

“Come on then, Nani, I’ll show you!” Grog called.

Nanisha ran back and barrelled inside ahead of them. Niko, following behind, toddled a little slower, so Grog swept her up and set her on his shoulders.

“Don’t forget to duck!” Shaun said.

…

Next Winter’s Crest, it was Whitestone’s turn for a visit. Grog was especially excited, because it was his first time seeing Pike since she’d announced that she was pregnant. He bounded up the stairs to Vex’s manor, his family trailing behind, and threw open the doors without knocking. 

“Pike!” he yelled. “Are you here?”

His voice echoed through the entrance hall. Seconds later, Pike appeared in the doorway across from him. She was already showing, wearing only a soft linen tunic.

“Hi buddy!” she called.

“Look at you!” Grog sprinted toward her, lifted her off her feet, and spun her in a circle.

She was laughing when he set her down again.

“Can I still do that?” Grog asked suddenly. “Do I have to be more careful now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Pike said.

At the exact same time, Scanlan’s voice rang out from the doorway.

“Maybe a little more careful!”

He was rather high pitched. The older he got, the more doting and protective he seemed to become. His adoration of Kaylie was definitely going to extend to his other kid. Grog grinned and picked him up, squeezing him in a death-grip hug.

“Congrats, you asshole.”

“Thanks,” said Scanlan. He was smiling by the time Grog let him go. “Looks like we get to raise our babies all together now.”

“Yeah,” a new voice added. “And hopefully your second try at parenting goes better than the first.”

It was Kaylie. She raised an eyebrow at her father. But, luckily, it seemed intended to pull his leg more than actually upset him.

Grog had heard all the Shorthalt news in letters. Unsurprisingly, Kaylie had some mixed feelings when she heard about the pregnancy. But having been around so many other children, she’d discovered that kids thought she was cool. And some parts of being an older sibling appealed to her. Things were looking positive for the little gnome family.

Everyone made their way back to dining room. Percy was there, reading a book. He told them that the other guests hadn’t arrived yet (Niko pouted, because she was obsessed with her Aunt Keyleth already), and that his wife and kids were out playing in the snow. The Geddmore children sprinted off to join. Grog and Shaun settled into seats side by side.

“Now,” said Kaylie. “May as well ask you guys right away. I have a question for you.”

“We’re listening,” said Shaun.

“You ever think about adopting more kids?”

Grog almost laughed. He wondered how many people would bring them this question. They had, in fact, been thinking about other adoptions. They’d even been presented several possibilities. But so far, nothing had felt like a fit.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What about gnomes?”

Grog’s face lit up.

“I love gnomes! You know that.”

“And we’d never turn away an adoption based on race,” Shaun added. “Other factors are far more important.”

“Okay,” Kaylie said. “I’ve got a story for you then.”

They listened while she laid it out.

“You know I go to school with a bunch of noble dickheads? Well, money seems to create a fuckton of drama. And there’s this girl in one of my classes. She’s ridiculously wealthy, but decent enough, compared to most. She had a baby like… a year ago. She’s got no clue who the father is. Her family have all these ideas of what her life is meant to be, so they hired a wet nurse to deal with everything and convinced her to return to school. But she’s just miserable with guilt. She wants the kid to be happy, but she doesn’t want to _keep _it.”

“And she hasn’t looked for someone to adopt the baby before?”

“She was trying. But her family are really obsessed with their bloodline. Right now, they feel like they _own _the baby girl, but they also look down on her, because of her… unknown paternal side.”

Kaylie looked furious. Of course, the situation probably tugged at something close to her heart.

“That’s why I wanted to ask you,” she continued. “My friend thinks she has a better chance of talking to her parents if she can find a really good adoptive family first. She can present her case properly that way. She can prove that the child won’t come back to bring them shame.”

“What?” Grog asked. “_We _make a good case for that?”

“You guys are famous adventurers with stable jobs,” Kaylie said, shrugging. “I figured it was worth a try. You’re also—gosh, never thought I’d say this about you, Uncle Grog—but you’re kind of responsible now. Will you meet with her?”

They hesitated. Just like with their last two daughters, something was calling to them. Something beyond what they could explain. But they did try to be sensible.

“Can- can you tell us more about the baby?” Shaun asked.

“Oh, okay,” Kaylie considered the question. “As far as I know, she’s pretty healthy. Not sure what baby milestones are important, but she can walk a bit? She’s like… thirteen months old?”

“She’ll be so small…” Grog said, looking enchanted already. “And imagine, with Pike’s baby, we would have two little gnomes around.”

“Oh!” Kaylie said. “And her name is Gilly. It’s short for Gilowyn, but that’s what her mother calls her.”

“Gilly?” Grog and Shaun said at the exact same time.

They stared at each other.

It was so much like Gilmore—like the name Shaun had chosen for himself, so many years ago. Perhaps it was silly, but it felt kind of like a sign.

“Okay,” Shaun said. “We’ll meet with her mother.”

…

Gilly was a scrappy wee thing. She was barely eighteen months when Shaun and Grog brought her home, but she was walking better than any of the Vox Machina babies had at the same age, and she climbed up any vantage point on which she could find purchase, managing to collect small bumps and bruises far too often.

She was so full-on that her parents certainly didn’t expect to add to their family for a while. But life had other plans…

Grog had promised to go to Westruun when Pike had her baby, and after some discussion, his family decided to join him. They would help out in the early days: keeping up with cooking and cleaning, holding the new baby so the gnomes could sleep or shower, and passing on a few parenting tricks. Some people had mothers or fathers who could move in with them at such a time, but Grog and Pike only had each other.

So, when the Geddmore’s received word that Pike had gone into labour, they prepared to leave as soon as possible.

They arrived ten hours later to find a very exhausted, very happy family, with a tiny wrinkled baby in their arms. Scanlan was incredibly emotional. Every time he saw Kaylie holding her little brother, he burst into fresh tears. Pike was almost _fierce _with joy.

“Auntie Pike, what are you gonna call him?” Nani asked.

Unsurprisingly, there was a tribute to Grog in the works. The gnomes were still debating first names, with Kaylie an equal combatant in their discussions, but they were settled on the middle name.

The news made Grog cry. He looked incredibly endearing, cradling the tiny baby in one hand, like precious cargo.

The day after the Geddmore’s settled in, they were preparing lunch, when they heard a loud knock on the front door. Scanlan went to open it. Though his words were indistinguishable through the walls, he was clearly using his most soothing voice. After a minute, he closed the door again, and went through to the dining room, where Pike was waiting.

“Hi!” Pike said happily. “Come here!”

“She’s much heavier than ours,” Scanlan’s voice warned.

“Oh, you’re too protective,” Pike said. “I can still hold her.”

“I can barely hold her myself!”

“And I’m much stronger than you, babe. Doesn’t matter how exhausted I am…”

A small, significant silence followed.

“Oh shit,” Pike sighed. “You’re right. Give her to Grog. Grog?”

Grog and Shaun exchanged a look. Then they dropped their cooking utensils and ran through to the other room.

They found Scanlan clutching a human baby.

At first, their reactions were pure chaos—mixed confusion and delight. Nani and Niko had appeared as well. They were bouncing on tiptoes to get a better view of the latest arrival. Eventually, everyone sat around the table, the newcomer cradled carefully in the crook of Grog’s elbow.

“Sorry,” Pike said. “I should explain… someone abandoned this wee girl on the temple steps last week. I promised I would foster her until we found space in an orphanage.”

“Despite being pregnant,” Kaylie added.

“Well.” Pike looked humble. “As one of the head priests, she’s kind of my responsibility. I got some acolytes to take care of her while I was in labour, but no one can hold onto her too long. I _am _sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry?” Grog asked.

“It’s a lot to spring on you, making you stay in a house with _two _new babies when you have your own to worry about.”

“Nonsense,” Shaun assured her. “This is important. Besides, Keyleth will get here tomorrow. Between us all, we can handle it.”

Despite his surety, the next few weeks became the most harried of their entire lives. All of them had been involved in toppling dragons and defeating gods, yet the ongoing, exhausting work of a house full of children was something else entirely. Neither of the babies settled fast. During the night, Shaun and Grog were the ones in charge of checking on the little human girl. Sometimes, they did so while carrying a wide-awake, unsettled Gilly. They became used to standing in the kitchen, bottle in hand, rocking crying babies back and forth.

The human girl didn’t have a name at the beginning. But Keyleth soon took care of that. With one look at her little legs, kicking about wildly whether happy or sad, she started calling her “Cricket.”

And Shaun and Grog started getting attached.

They weren’t the only ones; all their children loved the baby too. Nani, who was normally lively and on-the-move, would settle down entirely when she had Cricket nestled on her lap. Niko was wary of the squalling, but she would press small, precise kisses to her forehead, and tell her everything was fine. Even Gilly was used to her. She was so new to the family herself that her fathers wondered if she would find it jarring to suddenly be separated from her friend.

In the end, their yearnings seemed to lead them to the obvious conclusion. They went to find Pike. She was baking in the kitchen—a form of stress relief—but with one glance in their direction, she knew to set aside her mixing bowl.

“I know that look,” she said. “Is this about Cricket?”

…

Shaun was shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“You have the bottles prepared?” he asked. “When she’s hungry, she’s always ready to go immediately.”

“We have them.”

“And you won’t forget to keep an eye on Gilly? She’s going through such a jealous phase—”

“Shaun, my darling boy, have some faith,” Soren interrupted. “We’ve looked after our own grandchildren before, and we raised you, yes? We know what to do with babies.”

“I know,” Shaun sighed.

“They’ll be fine,” Grog said. Usually, he was the overprotective one, but he trusted Shaun’s parents completely. “It’s just for one evening.”

Shaun sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

A few months had passed since they adopted their youngest daughter, and finally gave her a proper name to match her nickname. Krisha, more fondly known as Cricket, was now old enough to start eating solid food. Her grandparents had requested that they be involved in that process. So, Shaun and Grog had brought the whole family to Shandal. They were pretty sure all their kids would end up with the itch to travel in their blood.

Upon arrival, Soren and Opesa offered them a gift: their first child-free date in years.

Now that Shaun’s worrying was done, they went to hug Nani and Niko, who barely glanced their way, they were having so much fun playing with the toys their grandparents had given them. Then they kissed Gilly and Krisha, who were nestled in Opesa’s arms. And off they went.

The sun was going down, the oasis brushed by a warm breeze that would soon fade into the open desert sky. Shaun guided Grog with purpose. Hand in hand, they wove down the sandy paths between the scattered little houses. They waved to a few people they knew, glad that, by now, the effect of their celebrity was wearing off. It was possible to enjoy a simple evening without embarrassing interruptions.

Eventually, Shaun drew Grog to a stop, and waved a hand toward jagged rise of stone pocketed by oasis pools.

“This is the centre of town at daytime,” he explained. “But with the sun going down, people retreat inside to the warmth, and we get some privacy…”

He chose a pool with a gathering of prickly shrubbery around it, a few palm trees arching overhead. Once they pushed through the plants, they were invisible to any nearby structures, and, hopefully, to anyone passing by on the usual roads.

Shaun slid out of his robe first. His skin reflected moonlight. Entirely naked. Grog couldn’t help the astounded gasp that burst out of him. He wasn’t expecting such boldness.

Shaun sank into the water, sighing happily.

“Oh, it’s perfectly warm,” he promised. “If it cools later, I’ll bring out a little magic.”

“Sounds… good,” Grog managed to say.

After all this time, he was still in awe of his husband. Still starstruck.

Shaun peered up at him. A wicked grin was spreading over his face. He could clearly read exactly what Grog was thinking.

“Come on, you can’t be that stunned already,” he said. “Get in here!”

Grog didn’t need to be told twice. He dumped his clothes and stepped into the water. The pool was as balmy as a bath, welcoming him into its embrace. The stone floor beneath his feet was smooth, with just the faintest dusting of drifting sand.

He went straight to his husband. Shaun opened his arms and kissed him close and quick, spinning him so his back was pressed against the sleek stone edge. He bit down on Grog’s lip and made him gasp again.

“It’s been too long,” Shaun groaned. “_Far _too long since we found a moment alone.”

The revelled in it. For an hour, while the sun went down, they reexplored each other’s bodies. By the end of it, Grog felt delirious with the weight of his love for Shaun. They settled against one of the natural curves of the pool, letting the land gently embrace them.

Shaun had an arm over Grog’s shoulder. Grog, curled lower in the water, leaned against his chest.

“How come there’s no one here?” he asked.

He supposed that should have occurred to him _before _doing all this outside. But, with Shaun around, and wearing so little…

“People know what this place gets used for at night,” Shaun said. “If you hear voices, you stay well away from whatever pool they’re coming from.”

“Good,” Grog said.

He ran a hand along Shaun’s arm, light and explorative.

“Your runes aren’t out today.”

“True.” Shaun said. He looked down at his own body. “Just a second…”

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and Grog watched glyphs come to light over his skin. They were stunning in the water, under the darkening sky. They reflected over ripples, painting everything with purple light.

“So beautiful,” Grog murmured.

He kissed his husband, slow and sweet.

“I love them,” he said. “I love all the things that make you _you_.”

“I love all your things as well,” Shaun said.

He ran a hand down Grog’s chest, slowly, and brushed his fingers over the scar atop his heart. The sensation seemed to resonate deep inside, making Grog shiver. Shaun followed it with his lips.

He trailed over every black marking, and every raised scar, and the few tiny moles he could find, until Grog was nothing more than a puddle, his limbs turned to liquid, melting in the pool. It was less frantic than what came before. It formed a tangled, undefinable stretch of time—slow and sensual and everlasting.

With word and breath and body, Grog knew, deep down inside, that he was truly loved.

…

“Is it too tacky?” Grog asked.

They were standing in the tavern they’d built together. The whole place was a muddle of bright colour—blues and purples and shades of magenta, highlighted with vibrant gold—like a lavish den one might find in Ank’Harel. The bar counter was covered with candles and sparkling bottles. And, set out on shelves all over the place, were knick-knacks to memorialise the adventures of Vox Machina: dragon scales, the claws of beasts, and shards of ancient pottery, dug out of the Bag of Holding.

But, most extravagant of all, was the painting Grog had just uncovered. A surprise gift he had commissioned all by himself.

It filled the back wall with vibrant colour, strokes formed directly on the exposed brick. A big, stylised depiction of Grog was standing, feet planted solid, and grinning. In his arms, he held his husband, bridal style. Shaun’s painted face wore a knowing smile. In one hand he clutched a mug of ale, while in the other, he cradled a glass of wine. 

Shaun was going grey at the temples now, and he saw, with a profound sense of being truly known and truly loved, that Grog had made sure the artist captured it.

“I love it,” Shaun said. He beamed. “You really thought of this yourself?”

“It’s not too obnoxious?”

Shaun let out a laugh.

“It’s a little obnoxious, displaying ourselves on the back wall, my darling. But who cares what other people think?”

He planted a kiss against the nearest bit of Grog he could reach—his shoulder—and turned back to the rest of the room.

“And, please, don’t worry about being tacky.”

“What do you mean?”

There was a pause. Shaun regarded his husband curiously.

“You’ve seen all of my stores, right?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“A lot of people think those are tacky. They’re bright and colourful and covered in a thousand things that assault the senses. They smell of perfume and candles. They have _beaded curtains_. I like that stuff, but some might think it’s unrefined.”

Grog looked stunned—like he considered his husband to be the epitome of class.

“Really?” he said. “I had no idea.”

Shaun felt his heart melt all over again.

“That’s why I love you.”

And then a flash of movement caught his eye. Through the front windows, they had a good view of the street. Down the far end, a very familiar group had marched into sight.

“Oh shit,” Grog said. “They’re here early. It’s not barely past noon!”

They’d promised their friends could come the day before the tavern opened, but perhaps they should have specified a time.

“I suppose they don’t object to day-drinking,” Shaun chuckled. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Grog looked around the room first, though, like he was taking it all in. Shaun watched for signs of regret, now that the news had broken, and he knew some people might turn their noses up. Instead, he saw only pride.

“Who would’ve thought,” Grog said. “All those years ago, that _I_ would be the lucky customer to weasel my way to this side of the counter and go into business with you?”

“Oh, you are lucky,” Shaun teased. “A very successful gold-digger, I must say. But I feel just as pleased to have made _you_ my trophy husband.”

Grog pretended to be shocked.

“So you only married me for my looks?” he gasped.

And Shaun couldn’t continue the same joke. He had to kiss him.

“Honey,” he said, as he pulled away. “You know we’re far beyond just physicality.”

“Oh yeah?” Grog wore a very cheeky smile. “What else do you like about me?”

“If we start that list, we’ll be here all night.”

And their friends began to hammer on the door.

The tavern was soon filled with noise. Everyone went to look, excitedly, at what drinks were available. Some of them got emotional to see cocktails named after themselves. Some of them cracked up laughing to see the enormous portrait on the back wall. But, eventually, they settled into comfortable conversation.

They caught each other up on the latest events of their lives. They gossiped about their children. And they reminisced about all the things they’d done together.

As night fell over the rooftops of Emon, buildings turned into glowing islands of light in a deep blue city. The fading tendrils of the sun gleamed against a polished sign outside a brand-new tavern, where a rhino and a unicorn had been painted side-by-side. Gleaming in gold, the name of the place was illuminated in the fading light, printed bold for all to see: _Gilmore’s Glorious Grog._

_..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking through this entire very rare pair and watching their journey in my eyes. I appreciate you all so much. I cannot believe the support I got for something like this... comments much appreciated as we finally hit the end! 
> 
> And don't forget to find me on twitter @ ceylonthae or tumblr @ ceylonntea if you want to talk to me more!


End file.
